


Deliver Us From Evil

by Suzie_Shooter



Series: Fear No Evil [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cursed objects, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Horror, M/M, Rats, Sharing a Bed, Snowed In, ghost story, in which four idiots unleash demonic forces, period setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-01 19:02:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2784206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie_Shooter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ghost story AU set (vaguely) in the 1920's. When literature professor Athos de la Fère is invited to spend Christmas with an old friend and one of his students insists on tagging along, he's not expecting it to be overly eventful. But when a mysterious stranger arrives at the door in search of an old manuscript, hell may be very literally about to break loose...</p><p>(or, I spent a week reading entirely too much MR James and this is what happened).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Well I never."

D'Artagnan looked up from his cross-legged position on the rug as close as he could get to the fire without actually falling in, and found his tutor staring at a letter received that morning and only just opened.

"Some news?" he enquired eagerly, willing to take any opportunity to distract from trying to decipher the tetchy handwriting Athos had scrawled across his latest essay.

Athos glanced over at him. "An old friend of mine. We were undergraduates together. It seems he's come into something of an inheritance."

"Christmas goose on him this year then?" d'Artagnan grinned.

"It seems to be more in the way of property than money," Athos said, scanning the letter. "His uncle has left him a house. He's going up to inspect it and has invited me to join him there for Christmas."

D'Artagnan's face fell. Knowing Athos had no immediate family to speak of, he'd been hoping he would be around for the holidays, if only because Athos' rooms were substantially warmer than his and he was liberal with his port decanter. "Will you go?" he asked dismally.

"Yes, I don't see why not. It's been a while since I've seen him. It would be nice to catch up."

"Can I come too?"

Athos looked surprised. "Whyever would you want to spend a week in a most likely half-unfurnished house in the middle of nowhere?"

D'Artagnan shrugged. "Because the alternative is spending it on my own here. Everyone else has gone home to their families, and I haven't got one." He adopted what he hoped was a mournful and destitute expression and stared pensively into the fire. "Please, sir?"

Athos was silent for a moment, and when d'Artagnan risked a look round he found a crooked smile upon his face. 

"What?" d'Artagnan demanded immediately, dropping any pretence at misery. He cherished those times he could get one of Athos' rare smiles out of him, but to receive one without trying was slightly unnerving.

"You know," Athos said slowly, "you only ever call me sir when you want something?"

"I do not!"

"Yes you do. I've been making something of a study of it." Athos looked faintly amused.

"Does that mean I can come then?" d'Artagnan asked, hopeful at not having been given a flat refusal.

"There may not be room. I can hardly land Aramis with an unexpected guest."

"You'll have to write back and accept though won't you? You could ask if he minded you bringing someone," d'Artagnan suggested. "And as to room, well I don't mind sharing with you."

Athos raised his eyebrows. "I might," he muttered, but d'Artagnan could tell he'd already given in. "Very well," Athos sighed. "If you must." He smirked. "You can help me make a start cataloguing the library he mentions."

D'Artagnan gave a heartfelt groan.

\--

A week later they alighted from the train in what appeared to be the back of beyond. The only passengers to disembark at this particular stop, they were relieved to find a car arranged by Aramis waiting for them outside the station.

Even with the hood up it was a draughty ride, and the taciturn local driver said barely two words to them along the way. The cheering lights of the village quickly fell away behind and they found themselves travelling a long, straight and bleak stretch of road, with flurries of snow in the verges and only the occasional bare tree to break the monotony.

The skies were grey and heavy with the promise of more snow and Athos privately thought he'd never seen such a depressing landscape in his life. He found he was grateful after all for the presence of d'Artagnan, who chattered away cheerfully and constantly, and with no regard for whether anyone was listening. 

After a couple of miles the flat landscape curved up into gentle hills, and dark woodland crowded in on the road. Rounding a bend, the house appeared with a suddenness that took them by surprise.

"Here you go sirs. Blackmere Manor." 

They'd barely lifted their luggage out before the car was turning round and speeding off again, and they stared after it in some bemusement, having expected the driver to at least linger in hope of a tip even if the fare had been paid by Aramis.

"Maybe he wants to get home before the snow sets in," Athos ventured, casting an unfavourable eye at the heavy cloud. There was a distinctly sickly yellow tinge to it that didn't bode well.

"Athos!" 

The cry made them both turn, and Athos was relieved to see Aramis hurrying towards them from the door. Their driver had abandoned them with such haste that he'd been worrying what they would do if this turned out to be the wrong house. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but this odd looking structure had hardly been it.

"Hello Aramis." The two men embraced warmly, under the interested eye of d'Artagnan, who'd been curious to see what a long-standing friend of Athos' would be like.

"Good to see you my friend, it's been too long." Aramis smiled. "And this must be d'Artagnan? Pleased to meet you, I'm Aramis."

D'Artagnan held out his hand and Aramis shook it heartily. "I hope you don't mind me tagging along like this," d'Artagnan said apologetically, but Aramis waved away his concerns.

"Not at all! The more the merrier. There are four bedrooms in any case, I've had them all made up so you can take your pick." He turned towards the house and gestured dramatically. "What do you think?"

"It's certainly got - character," Athos ventured dubiously. It gave the impression of being a squat building, somehow crouching amidst the trees, but his eye counted at least three storeys in certain places, plus what looked like attic rooms. It was all gables and chimneys and odd angles, plus two enormous windows that wouldn't have looked out of place in a church.

"Wait till you see inside," Aramis grinned. "It'll knock your socks off." He helped them collect their various bags and lead the way in through a huge stone arch. The door was ancient oak, studded with iron, and Athos gave it a considering look.

"How old is this place?" he asked.

"Originally built in the fourteenth century," Aramis declared. "Been knocked around a bit since then obviously, and I'm sure you'll be pleased to know it's now got indoor plumbing." He shoved open an inner door and marched through. "Now. What do you think of this?"

They followed him through the door and both stopped dead in amazement. The room was huge, a genuine medieval hall, stretching up the whole height of the house. The two arched windows at the front were matched by two in the opposite wall, and various doors lead off at each end.

"It's amazing!" d'Artagnan said, staring up and around with his mouth open.

"It'll be a nightmare to heat," declared Athos.

"D'Artagnan, as clearly a man of taste, let me show you around," Aramis said, draping an arm around his shoulders and giving Athos a mock glare for his lack of enthusiasm. Athos followed them a few paces behind, smiling faintly.

Rooms leading off from the hall included a kitchen, a bathroom, and the promised library, which Athos had to be prised out of with promises of being allowed to return at his leisure.

At one end of the hall a narrow stone spiral staircase twisted up within the thickness of the wall to first one bedchamber and then a second smaller one above. At the other end of the hall, a wooden stair climbed to two more bedrooms, one of which was being occupied by Aramis; another, smaller bathroom, and, Athos was relieved to discover, a solar room furnished in the manner of a cosy parlour. There were lamps and a fire burning, and it was the first room that had felt homely.

"Athos, will you take the bedroom on the west stair?" Aramis asked. "It's the second biggest, after mine." He looked at d'Artagnan, rather speculatively, Athos thought. "Perhaps you'd like the one next to mine? It's not overly large, but it's warm and less of a climb than the one above Athos. Although don't let me dissuade you, if you'd rather be together." He looked meaningfully at Athos as he said this, but Athos just looked back at him steadily, and Aramis grinned.

"This one would be perfect, thank you," said d'Artagnan. It was a sweet little room, with tapestries keeping out the draughts and a window that looked out of the gable end. "I'll go and fetch my bags." He clattered off down the staircase, taking the steps two at a time.

Aramis drew Athos back into the parlour and smirked at him. "Well he's a fine young man. Where did you dig him up from?"

"I told you, he's one of my students."

Aramis raised a suggestive eyebrow. "I'm sure he gets _very_ good grades."

Athos folded his arms. "If you think for one second I would involve myself in that fashion with someone under my tutelage - "

"Oh Athos, lighten up." Aramis patted him soothingly on the shoulder. "So you're not - you know?"

"Certainly not."

Aramis looked thoughtful. "So you wouldn't mind if I - ?"

"Don't you dare. He's nineteen and impressionable. Keep your mucky designs off him."

Aramis rolled his eyes. "You're so dull Athos. You weren't always like this. Wasn't that long ago you were up for a lot more," he murmured, leaning closer.

Athos placed a hand on his chest and pushed him back. "Long enough," he said softly, and Aramis sighed.

"Anyway," Athos said. "I thought you were engaged?"

Aramis looked embarrassed. "I was. She broke it off."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know," Athos apologised. "What happened?" he asked, before realising it was none of his business. But they'd been friends for a long time, and he was surprised Aramis hadn't told him before.

"Ah, well. Bit of awkwardness there actually. Small matter of an affair with one of the porters at the hospital."

"Her?" Athos asked in surprise, then saw the sheepish look on Aramis' face and sighed. "You," he concluded.

"Yes."

"You're going to get struck off one of these days you know," Athos scolded. "Or worse."

Aramis gave a philosophical shrug. "Actually I was thinking I might move out here permanently. There's bound to be a local GP practice would appreciate a surgeon from the city."

"You? Live out in the sticks?" Athos shook his head, amused. "You'd be dead of boredom within a week."

A sudden shout from d'Artagnan drew their attention, and they moved out onto the staircase to see what was up.

"It's snowing!" D'Artagnan was staring excitedly out of the window in the hall below.

"He's adorable," Aramis whispered, smirking.

"He's nineteen," Athos whispered back sternly. "Promise me you'll behave."

Aramis crossed his eyes petulantly and sighed. "Oh very well. But you can't stop me looking." He ran lightly down the stairs to join d'Artagnan, and Athos followed on with a resigned but tolerant smile.

\--

By the time they had unpacked and reconvened with Aramis in the kitchen for a welcome hot meal, night had well and truly fallen and the snow was coming down thickly.

After dinner they adjourned to the library. Athos immediately started examining the contents of the shelves, but d'Artagnan was far more taken with the various glass cases ranged around the room.

"Your uncle must have been a bit of a collector," he said, examining a set of what appeared to be poisoned arrows. "Did he travel a lot, or was he just fond of auctions?"

Athos frowned at him, considering this impertinent in the extreme, but Aramis laughed.

"To tell you the truth I don't remember ever having met him, although I suppose I probably did as a boy. This whole thing came out of the blue, I presume I was his only surviving relative. I know very little about him, I have to say."

"He certainly has some interesting volumes," Athos said, absent-mindedly wiping dusty fingers on his trousers. "Some of these are quite rare."

"Tell me if they're worth anything, won't you?" Aramis grinned, putting his feet up on a stool and lighting a cigarette. Athos shook his head exasperatedly, knowing he was being goaded and refusing to rise to it.

"Hey look, a real crystal ball," d'Artagnan cried suddenly. On a pedestal in the corner was a large antique crystal globe in an ornate metal stand. He peered into its depths, frowning slightly. "Do you think it works?"

"Try it out," Aramis laughed. "Tell Athos his fortune."

D'Artagnan grinned wickedly, and grabbed a lace runner from a nearby sideboard, draping it over his head in the manner of a headscarf. He made dramatic passes over the crystal with his hands and looked over at Athos who was waiting to hear his fate with patient good humour.

"I see a tall, dark stranger about to enter your life," d'Artagnan intoned, and Aramis snorted with appreciative laughter.

"He wishes," Aramis muttered under his breath, drawing a warning frown from Athos.

D'Artagnan beamed, and was about to continue his predictions when a crashing noise echoed through the house, leaving them all looking at each other in startled confusion.

"What the devil?" Aramis was on his feet. "What was that?"

It was Athos who figured it out, as after a short pause the noise came again.

"It's your door knocker you idiot. There's someone at the door."

Aramis looked more startled than ever. "Who would be calling on me at this time of night?"

"You didn't invite anyone else?"

"No, just you two."

Intrigued, all three of them went out together through the great hall and into the passage beyond. Aramis drew back the bolts and hauled open the heavy door and Athos and d'Artagnan peered over his shoulder to see who it was that had come so far out of the village on such an appalling night.

The snow was still falling in dizzying flurries, and the man on the step seemed for a second to be a giant, until he moved into the light spilling from the hallway and they could see he was wearing a thick coat made thicker by a heavy layer of snow.

"Good grief," Aramis exclaimed. "Come in, quickly, you must be frozen."

"Thank you." 

The stranger had a deep voice, and as he accepted Aramis' invitation to enter and pushed the hood back from his face, the three of them were surprised to find he was young, dark-skinned and handsome.

He licked his lips, looking a little uncertain before their combined scrutiny, and Aramis shook himself.

"I'm terribly sorry, where are my manners? My name is Aramis, these are my friends, Athos and d'Artagnan." They nodded politely and the stranger nodded back, relaxing a little at their smiles. "What brings you out in such weather, and how can we help?"

"My name is du Vallon, Porthos du Vallon. My car broke down about two miles back, and this was the first house I've come to." He brushed snow off his shoulders, and then looked apologetic about the mess. 

"I got lost in the blizzard, seemed to be driving round in circles for hours. It was hard to see the road, I think I hit something in the verge - after that she just fairly well gave up the ghost, and it was stay there all night or press on in search of civilisation. I saw your lights, I hope you don't mind."

"Of course not, here, let me take your coat. You must come in and warm yourself by the fire, no, I insist. You must be so cold." Aramis was immediately every inch the welcoming host, bustling round their unexpected visitor in an effort to make him comfortable. "Would you like some hot tea, or cocoa? Or perhaps some wine? Athos, would get the door? Thank you."

As Aramis lead the party back into the hall, Athos went to shut the front door. He glanced out into the night as he did so and paused a second, frowning at something. Then he shrugged and closed and bolted the door.

He found the others in the kitchen, Aramis boiling the kettle on the range, and the stranger, Porthos, seated at the table with d'Artagnan.

"So, where is it you were bound?" Aramis asked cheerfully. "Perhaps we can set you on the right track. You'd better stay here tonight, and we can see about your car in the morning, perhaps get someone out from the village."

"You're very kind." Porthos smiled warmly at him. "I was looking for a place called Blackmere Manor, have you heard of it?"

Aramis looked taken aback. "Well - but this is Blackmere Manor. Were you looking for me then?"

Porthos looked just as astonished. "Francois d'Herblay?" he ventured, looking round uncertainly and clearly thinking to himself that none of the three men had identified themselves as such.

Light dawned in Aramis' face. "That was my uncle."

"Was?"

"I'm afraid he passed away a couple of months back." 

Porthos looked sombre. "Then I've had a wasted journey."

"Perhaps if you actually told us what you wanted, we might be able to help," Athos put in dryly. 

"Yes. Sorry." Porthos looked embarrassed, and Aramis frowned at Athos, who ignored him.

"I'm a Fellow of the British Library - M. d'Herblay wrote to us explaining his intent to donate a certain manuscript. Unfortunately this was the first opportunity we've had to follow it up, and it seems I'm too late."

"What was the manuscript?" Athos asked.

"Oh, here, I have his letter." Porthos opened the bag he'd been carrying and drew out an envelope, from which he unfolded a sheet of typed foolscap and handed it to Aramis.

Aramis scanned it and shrugged, handing it to Athos. "I'm afraid the title means nothing to me. If it's here, I guess you're welcome to it, but I'd have no idea where to look."

Athos had been reading the letter closely, and now glanced up. "The letter's not signed?" he said mildly.

Everyone automatically looked at it. There was the name at the bottom, neatly typed, but no signature.

"I guess he forgot?" Porthos offered with a helpless shrug. "I imagined I'd be seeing the man himself, as you're aware. I didn't anticipate there would be any difficulty about it."

"There's no difficulty," Aramis assured him. "If it was my uncle's intent to donate it, I'd be happy to go along with his wishes."

"Based on some of the other items he collected, it might be quite valuable," Athos pointed out.

Aramis sighed. "I'm sure once we find it you'll be able to give us the benefit of your opinion," he said.

"Whether we want it or not," d'Artagnan added mischievously, making Aramis laugh.

Athos looked at him. "I'm sorry, were you expecting to pass next term?" he enquired.

D'Artagnan flushed. "This should be designated neutral ground," he muttered. "It's only fair."

"You think so do you?" Athos asked, and d'Artagnan's blush deepened until Aramis laughed out loud and clapped d'Artagnan on the shoulder.

"He's winding you up, don't let him fool you," Aramis declared.

D'Artagnan looked startled at the idea Athos should even know how to go about winding someone up, but when he looked back at his tutor Athos was smiling at him and he relaxed into a relieved grin. 

Porthos had been watching all this with unobtrusive interest, quietly sipping his tea and looking from one to the other as they bickered.

They adjourned to the library, and considered the task before them. Porthos was certain the item in question was a manuscript rather than a large bound book, so many of the shelves could be discounted, but a slim volume that could be tucked in anywhere would be harder to locate.

Aramis quickly lost interest in the search and settled into an armchair to watch and supply unhelpful comments, but Athos, despite being initially reserved about the whole thing soon became enthused by the opportunity to look through everything. Every few minutes he would get distracted by some rare volume or other, but was disappointed by Porthos' lack of matching interest. He expounded on various things instead to d'Artagnan, who was glad of an excuse to stop rifling through the musty papers and listen to him, regardless of the topic.

Porthos seemed single-minded in his search, and the three of them made good headway through most of one wall of promising looking papers, only to end up dusty and tired and ultimately empty-handed.

D'Artagnan yawned widely and looked pleadingly at Athos, who took pity on him.

"Perhaps we should give up for tonight. Make another search tomorrow morning. Maybe we'll get lucky."

Despite Porthos' vote to keep searching he was overruled and the party broke up and retired to bed, with Porthos being shown to the small room above Athos'.

Athos lay in bed listening thoughtfully to the creaking of the floorboards above his head as Porthos walked to and fro. Then the footsteps ceased and the bed creaked as Porthos climbed in, and there was silence. It had been a long day and Athos was soon drifting in and out of sleep, propped against the pillows. 

Athos gradually became aware of a pricking feeling of being watched. It became so intense that he rolled over, and was considerably startled to find a dark shape standing in the open doorway. Trying to call out, his voice wouldn't come, and the feeling of unease and inability to move got stronger and stronger until he woke with a gasp and realised he'd been asleep after all.

With hands that had a distinct tremor to them he sat up and kindled the lamp. To his relief, the bedroom door was still as firmly shut as he'd left it, and the room was otherwise empty. Half-laughing at his own nerves and the thumping of his heart, Athos had barely lain back against the pillows when he heard a strangled cry from somewhere above. He sat bolt upright again, listening intently, and when the noise came again he climbed out of bed and picked up the lamp.

Opening his door he walked cautiously up the twisting staircase to the next floor, the stone steps cold under his bare feet. The flickering lamplight made the walls crowd in on him, and he shivered uncomfortably.

The door to Porthos' room was closed, and he knocked hesitantly. The noises from within were still audible, and had a note of such distress that after a second Athos made up his mind and tried the handle.

To his surprise the door opened under his touch, and he stepped inside. The light of the lamp revealed Porthos still in bed, clearly asleep and twisting in the bedclothes, in the grip of a nightmare.

Athos set down the lamp and reached out to him. "Porthos. Porthos, wake up!"

Porthos' eyes flew open and he half-sat up, gasping in horrified breaths. Athos reached out to him instinctively, unsure if Porthos recognised him in the dim light.

"It's me, Athos. Only me. It's okay." 

Porthos grabbed him fiercely, his breathing gradually calming as he processed where he was, and who was with him.

"Sorry," he managed, losing his death-grip on Athos' forearms and sitting back. "I was - having a nightmare."

"I think it's this house," Athos sympathised with some feeling, sitting down on the side of the bed. "It's rather creepy, don't you think?"

Porthos gave him an embarrassed smile. "Thank you for waking me. Did I disturb you?" he asked, wondering exactly how loudly he'd been yelling in his sleep.

Athos shook his head. "No, I was awake. Had a bad dream myself as a matter of fact," he confessed.

Porthos shuddered. "I dreamt there was this horrid old man in the doorway. Every time I looked round he was closer to me, then he was leaning over the bed, and - " he broke off with a grimace. "That's when you woke me, and by God am I grateful."

Athos was looking at him oddly, startled by how closely it had matched his own dream, but said nothing as Porthos was clearly still shaken.

"Will you be alright?"

Porthos looked uneasy. "Don't suppose you'd consider staying?" he asked, looking embarrassed to death to be asking but unwilling to spend a moment longer alone. 

Athos was surprised. "There's not really room," he pointed out. The chamber was small, and only held a single bed. Porthos looked doleful and Athos sighed. "Would you like to come in with me?"

"Would you mind?" 

Athos shook his head. "To be honest I should be glad of the company."

Together they descended to Athos' room and closed the door firmly behind them. The bed indeed proved plenty big enough for both of them, and as they lay down to sleep if Athos seemingly forgot to put out the light, certainly Porthos did not see fit to remind him.

\--

When Porthos woke the next morning he found he was alone in the bed, with winter sunshine pouring in through the window. He dressed and made his way down to the bathroom below, where he was forced to linger outside for a moment as it proved to be currently occupied by Athos.

When he came out, Athos found Porthos studying a portrait on the nearby wall, a dark study in oils of a serious looking cleric.

"Aramis' uncle?" Athos said after greeting him, leaning over his shoulder and reading the plaque to see what had piqued his interest.

"It's funny," Porthos said, sounding not the least bit amused. "I must have caught sight of this last night on my way to bed without realising. I could swear that was the man in my dream." He shivered. "I don't think he wants me here." 

Athos smiled. "But surely he's the one who invited you?" he said. Porthos muttered something inaudible, and disappeared hurriedly into the bathroom, leaving Athos staring thoughtfully at the door.

When Porthos emerged, feeling better for a hot bath, he followed the sound of voices to the kitchen where he found Aramis cooking sausages and d'Artagnan sitting at the table drinking tea.

"Good morning!" Aramis waved a fork at him. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, thank you," Porthos said, seeing no reason to burden his host with tales of night terrors, particularly if Athos hadn't mentioned it to them.

"I'm afraid we'll have to fend for ourselves for the moment," Aramis continued. "I've been having a woman from the village come up to see to things, but I doubt she'll make it in this snow."

Porthos walked over to look out of the window. It must have been snowing heavily for most of the night, although it was bright and sunny at the moment.

"Where's Athos?" he asked, wondering if he'd made a start in the library already.

"Insisted on trying to get down to the village," d'Artagnan snorted. "Said he had some business to attend to, and would pick us up some supplies while he was at it."

"In this snow?" Porthos asked, astonished. "It must be thigh-high in places."

"I did offer to go with him, but he said he'd be fine," d'Artagnan said. "Oh, he said he'd see about a mechanic for your car too."

"Oh." Porthos looked uncomfortable. "That's - very kind of him."

Aramis laid a plateful of food in front of him. "I doubt anyone'll be able to come out for a day or so," he warned. "I think you might be stuck here for a bit. At least it'll give you a chance to have a decent look for that manuscript."

"I'm sorry to impose like this," Porthos told him, but Aramis waved his concerns away.

"It's no bother. The more the merrier." A thought occurred to him, and he looked apologetic. "Is there anyone that'll be worried you haven't come home? Sorry, we should have thought, Athos could have sent a telegram for you."

"No. No, there's no-one likely to miss me until after Christmas," Porthos told him, somewhat to Aramis' surprise.

"Oh, well, in that case you might as well stay for the duration," he offered, feeling sorry that Porthos apparently had no-one to go to for the holidays. 

Porthos looked startled and then, it seemed to d'Artagnan, slightly guilty. "I couldn't possibly - "

"Nonsense, I insist," Aramis told him, and considered the matter settled.

As the day wore on and Athos didn't return, they started casting increasingly worried glances out of the windows. The skies were closing in again, with snow flurries starting to fall. 

Occupied with their search in the library, the time slipped past until it was time for tea and there had still been no sign of Athos.

"I suppose he is alright, is he?" d'Artagnan said anxiously. The early dusk was falling, and the snow was getting harder.

"He can take care of himself," Aramis promised. "Although if it gets much later I might worry. He should have had plenty of time to get back in daylight, it's only a couple of miles." 

Despite this, it was almost full dark before they heard the front door creak open, and footsteps in the main hall. D'Artagnan jumped to his feet and shot out of the library, closely followed by Aramis. Both were relieved to find Athos brushing snow from his coat and apparently unharmed. 

"Athos! Where have you been? We thought something must have happened to you!" d'Artagnan cried, resisting the urge to embrace him with some difficulty. 

Athos gave him a brief smile, but looked troubled. "Sorry if I alarmed anyone. There was something I needed to do. Is Porthos still here?" 

"Yes, he's in the library," said Aramis. "We've had no luck finding this manuscript."

Athos nodded grimly. "Come with me. You'd both better hear this." He walked off, leaving Aramis and d'Artagnan to exchange bemused looks.

"Athos! You made it." Porthos was seated in one of the arm chairs sorting through a pile of papers, and greeted him with a smile which faltered a little as Athos just regarded him soberly.

"As you all know, I went into the village this morning," Athos said quietly and without preamble. "I wanted to send a telegram, and I decided to wait for the reply."

"Bit cold to hang around all day wasn't it?" Aramis exclaimed.

Athos inclined his head with a slight smile. "I settled myself in the public house, it turns out they do a very acceptable local ale."

D'Artagnan snorted. "You mean to say we were worried about you and all this time you were in the damn pub!"

"You were worried about me?" 

"No," Aramis retorted. "Get on with the story. What's with all this telegraphing business, you said nothing about it this morning? Whatever was so important you had to hang around for the answer?"

"With all this snow I wasn't sure I would be able to get back into the village if I left it overnight," Athos said. "And as to the content - " he hesitated and looked at Porthos. "I sent an enquiry to the British Library. It turns out they have no record of any letter received from a Francois d'Herblay, or any mention of an intended donation by him."

Porthos had shot to his feet, looking flustered. "Well, but I have all the paperwork here with me, no wonder they can't find it," he stammered.

"Nor," said Athos with a quiet but firm inevitability, "do they have any associate or member of staff by the name of Porthos du Vallon."

(tbc)


	2. Chapter 2

Every eye turned to Porthos in a mixture of surprise, enquiry and accusation. For a second he wavered, eyes flicking to the door as if considering making a run for it, but the three of them were all standing in his way and after a second he crumpled back into his seat and put his head in his hands.

Aramis looked from Porthos to Athos, confused and increasingly angry that their visitor had apparently tried to swindle him.

"Whatever put you on to this?" Aramis asked, feeling rather embarrassed that he'd been so guileless in believing Porthos' story.

"A couple of things," Athos admitted. "When he arrived last night, he said he'd broken down further out, and that we were the first house he came to - but the footsteps in the snow came from the direction of the village. That could have had an innocent enough explanation, he might have walked past in the blizzard and not noticed the lights at first. But then later in the library, he showed - well, considerably less knowledge of or interest in some of the books I was showing him than I would have expected of a member of the British Library. And then there was the unsigned letter. I suppose I just wanted to make sure."

Athos looked down at Porthos. "I assume the letter was a forgery?" 

Porthos nodded miserably.

"And the story about the breakdown was a fabrication? You knew very well this was the house you wanted?"

Another nod. "Do I look like I could afford to run a car?" Porthos asked with a tired laugh. "No, you're right. I came up by the last train and walked from the village."

Aramis frowned at him. "So come on then Porthos, if that's even your name. I think we deserve an explanation don't you? You seem to have gone to a lot of trouble to defraud your way in here to find something we only have your word exists in the first place." Wondering now if the man was perhaps here to case the joint for a later robbery.

"It does exist," Porthos insisted. "And yes, Porthos du Vallon is my real name." He sighed. "I'm sorry. You've all treated me so kindly, and this is how I repay you."

"You weren't expecting to find us here were you?" Athos asked, taking the seat next to him and thinking back to Porthos' rather startled expression at finding three men opening the door to him.

Porthos shook his head. "I thought I'd be dealing with some local executor or the like, who'd be impressed by the letter and ignorant of the manuscript's value." He glanced at Athos, with a mixture of resignation and respect.

"You knew my uncle was dead then?" Aramis said immediately. "Perhaps you were expecting to find the house empty? What then, you'd have broken in and stolen this thing?"

Porthos looked up with a flare of feeling. "Not stolen. It's my rightful property. My inheritance. It belonged to my father, until d'Herblay took it from him."

Aramis stared at him coldly. "My uncle was a vicar, I hardly think he was in the habit of defrauding people."

Porthos subsided a little. "I'm sorry. I meant no offence."

"Why don't you start from the beginning?" Athos said gently, waving Aramis and d'Artagnan to chairs. He'd been impressed by Porthos' single-minded and dedicated search, and was sure in his own mind that the man had no designs on the rest of the house's contents. Confronted with his deception Porthos had proved both civil and apologetic, and Athos was intrigued as to the reasons behind it all.

"I work as a clerk in a law firm," Porthos told them. "The office was dealing with the estate of M. d'Herblay, and I recognised the name. I thought this might be my one chance to recover an item that was mine by right, if you like." He glanced at Aramis. "However your uncle came by it, I'm not saying it was dishonestly, but it once belonged to my father, and he would never have let it out of his possession willingly." 

Porthos paused, to gather his thoughts. "I was only small - maybe five years old - but I remember him talking about it. In fact he never seemed to shut up about it. It was going to make him rich, he reckoned. Rich and powerful, more than all other men." Porthos gave a rueful smile. "I don't know, maybe that's how all fathers go on to their sons. But he seemed so certain. And then one day something happened, he lost it to d'Herblay." 

Porthos looked awkwardly at Aramis. "I'm not saying he stole it. I was just a child, I don't know what happened. But I remember my father's rage. And I remember the name."

"Did you ever even see it, this book?" Aramis asked, still annoyed about the implication his uncle might have been anything less than honest.

"My father kept it locked away, but I caught a glimpse of it once. Horrible thing it was, gave me nightmares for weeks."

"And this is something you want back in your possession?" d'Artagnan couldn't help asking.

Porthos flushed. "I was going to sell it. You see - after he lost it, my father disappeared. Vanished. We never saw him again. My mother died not long after." He was silent for a second, sober-faced. "I grew up in the workhouse mostly. Managed to do alright for myself in the end, but it's been a struggle making ends meet. I was going to use the money to put myself through law school. I figured I was owed it. That d'Herblay was dead, and I wouldn't be doing anyone any harm." 

He bowed his head. "And it's all been for nothing. Maybe it's not even here, maybe he never had it at all." Porthos looked up at Athos, face guarded but resigned. "Will you go to the police?"

Athos looked to Aramis. "It's your house."

Aramis sighed, staring at Porthos in a quandary. Finally he shrugged. "What the hell. It's not like a crime has actually been committed yet. I'm willing to let it go." He looked at Athos to see if he agreed, and got a slight nod of approval.

Porthos looked stunned. "Really? Do you mean that?"

"Yes. Why not." Aramis suddenly smiled at him. "It is Christmas after all. Season of good will and all that."

"I don't know what to say. Thank you. Thank you. I know I don't deserve it." Porthos got slowly to his feet. "I suppose I'd better be going."

"Where to?" Aramis asked in surprise. "There'll be no trains at this time of the evening, if they're even running at all in this weather. Athos barely made it back up the road, and it's been coming down thickly ever since. You'd better stay."

"You can hardly want me here," Porthos said awkwardly.

"I hardly want them to discover your frozen body out there come springtime either," Aramis retorted. "I think we're all stuck with each other, for a couple of days at least."

They ate supper together in the kitchen, being cosier than the draughty hall, but afterwards were drawn irresistibly back into the library. 

"It seems a shame after all this that we haven't found it," Aramis sighed, settling into his customary chair and looking expectantly at Athos, who was busy with the decanter. 

"Maybe we should ask the crystal ball," d'Artagnan grinned.

Athos snorted. "If you put half the effort into your studies that you put into pointless distractions..."

"Hey, don't knock it. It was right about your tall dark stranger wasn't it?" d'Artagnan laughed, nodding at Porthos. He grabbed hold of the stand the crystal was resting on and attempted to drag it further into the room.

"D'Artagnan stop fooling around, you're going to break something," Athos told him irritably.

"Don't fuss it's fine, it's fixed down. Look." D'Artagnan tilted the wooden stand and then watched in horror as the crystal rolled out of the ornate metal base and crashed to the floor with a sound of splintering.

Everyone froze, and d'Artagnan clapped a hand over his eyes. "Tell me the worst," he said tightly, wondering with a feeling of nausea how valuable it had been.

Athos bent down and retrieved the globe. "It's fine," he reported with some surprise. "Somehow you appear to have managed to merely break the house instead."

Everyone looked down at the dip in the carpet where the heavy crystal had apparently smashed through a floorboard.

"That's odd," said Aramis. "I thought there were stone flags under here. Used to be the chapel when the house was built, I think. Athos, grab the corner, let's have a look."

They peeled back the rug and peered at the damage. One of the floorboards was split across its width and a dark space showed beneath. 

Aramis slipped his hand into the crack and prised up the broken board, before lifting out the other half until there was a hole about a foot long by six inches wide. By now all four of them were kneeling on the floor staring into the gap. It was pitch black inside, and even bringing the lamp across they couldn't tell how deep it was.

"Well I'm not putting my hand in there," Aramis declared. "It's probably all cobwebby."

Athos looked amused. "For a man who makes his living putting his hands into people's body cavities, you're remarkably squeamish."

"I like to think of that as more of a hobby," Aramis said under his breath, and was gratified by Athos' stifled huff of laughter.

They all eyed the hole uncertainly. 

"I'll do it," Porthos offered finally, and with a little trepidation put his hand down into the space. He was in about halfway between wrist and elbow before his expression changed. "I can feel something."

"Is it a rat?" asked Aramis wickedly and Porthos dragged his hand out so fast that he banged his knuckles on the boards. He glared at Aramis, who smiled back unrepentantly.

Porthos snorted disgustedly, shaking his head. "Didn't feel ratty," he said, as if trying to convince himself. "Felt like cloth."

"Maybe it's a shroud," suggested Aramis helpfully. "This being an old chapel and all."

Porthos fixed him with a look, and deliberately stuck his hand back in the hole, feeling around. Athos, thinking privately that after Aramis' teasing he wouldn't have put his own hand down there for all the tea in China, was impressed.

Porthos grabbed hold of something and with some difficulty drew it out of the gap. It was a flat rectangular package, bound up in sailcloth and sealed with wax. Porthos carried it carefully to the writing desk and everyone clustered around.

"You don't suppose - ?" d'Artagnan let the thought tail off, but everyone was thinking the same thing.

"It's certainly about the right size," said Porthos.

"Whatever's that all over it?" said Athos, brushing grains of something off onto the carpet. "Sand?"

Aramis dabbed a finger into it and touched it tentatively to his tongue. "Salt," he said in surprise.

Athos touched the wax seal thoughtfully, considering how best to proceed. 

"That's from my uncle's signet ring," Aramis said, studying the design of the seal carefully. "It was in his effects."

"Aramis, do you have a letter opener?" Athos asked. When one was provided he held it briefly in the flame of one of the candles to heat it, then slid it carefully under the blob of the seal, prising it up in one piece and freeing the loose ends of the knotted twist of cord beneath.

At that moment, a fierce gust of wind from the growing storm outside slammed against the library window and it burst inwards, making the curtain flare. It caught the oil lamp that had been left on the floor by the hole, turning it over and in an instant burning oil had set fire to rug and curtain alike.

For a confused few minutes they all beat at the flames, which seemed to take hold with alarming speed. Eventually, they managed to both douse the fire and slam the window shut again, panting and exclaiming in shock. Certainly it felt like the result would have been a lot worse than a little charred fabric if there hadn't been four of them to put the fire out.

Aramis poured brandy for everyone, feeling it was certainly needed, and when heart rates had returned to something like normal, they gathered back around the book.

Athos was unsuccessfully trying to untie the tangled cords and d'Artagnan sighed impatiently. "Can't we just cut it open?"

Athos gave him a disapproving look. "Heathen."

"Well, let me have a go then." 

Athos relinquished his seat and d’Artagnan took over, unpicking the knot in a short space of time.

"What nimble fingers you have," said Aramis admiringly, meeting Athos' frown with a guileless look.

"Just better eyesight probably," Athos retorted, resuming the seat in front of the desk and carefully unwrapping the cloth.

Lying in the folds was an ancient looking volume, with a dark tooled leather binding. 

"That's it!" Porthos said excitedly. "We've found it!" He subsided a little as he remembered he technically had no claim to it. 

"You'd better open it Athos," Aramis said. "You're probably the one of us least likely to damage it."

Athos raised an eyebrow. "Only probably?"

With great care he lifted open the cover, and stared in astonishment at the design within. It was a face staring out of the page, which at first he took to be a sun but looking closer realised it was formed from a mass of black, writhing snakes. 

"That's it," Porthos said rather hoarsely. "That's the picture I remember seeing as a child."

"No wonder it gave you nightmares," d'Artagnan said feelingly. "It's hideous."

"It's exquisite," Athos murmured, leaning closer. "Look at the detail in it." It was such a complex design it seemed when he was concentrating on one section the snakes on the edge of his field of vision seemed to be moving.

"Come on, move on," d'Artagnan urged impatiently. "Let's see the rest."

Athos suppressed a smile and turned the page obligingly. "The pages are quite loose," he noted. "We'll need to be careful."

Each page proved to hold cramped Latin text running neatly around a depiction of some kind of animal. A pair of silver owls stared back at them from one, and a seething knot of rats from another.

"It's a Bestiary," said Athos in wonder, turning a third page to reveal a hissing ginger cat, or possibly a tiger.

"How old?" asked d'Artagnan.

Athos considered. "I'd say maybe fourteenth century?"

"The same age as the original house," Aramis put in.

"You think there's a connection?"

"Well, judging from the seal and from what Porthos has said, it can only have been in the hole for - what, twenty, twenty five years at most? So I don't see how there can be."

"Oh." Porthos gave a sudden, quiet exclamation and they all looked at him. He appeared to have thought of something that gave him no comfort whatsoever.

"I suppose it's always possible that my father - obtained - the manuscript from d'Herblay in the first place?" he said slowly. He'd never given it a thought before, but considering objectively now the kind of society his father had seemed part of, compared to that of his current companions, it seemed a stomach-churning possibility. 

"Well, we've no way of knowing _what_ happened, so there's no point in speculation," said Aramis kindly. "In any case, here it is. Athos, what do you think it's worth?"

Athos pursed his lips. "I'd hesitate to name a sum, but - if you put it before the right bidders - I'd say a small fortune."

Athos continued to turn the pages, but Aramis' attention kept drifting thoughtfully back to Porthos, who looked more miserable than ever at the news of what he'd lost. 

"What the devil's that supposed to be?" d'Artagnan asked. The beast on the current page seemed to be trailing water and tentacles. 

"Some kind of squid?" Athos hazarded.

"Drawn by someone who'd never seen one," d'Artagnan added. "And who was drunk."

"I certainly wouldn't want to meet that fellow on a dark night," Aramis grinned. 

Athos turned the last page, and the merriment fell away as they all stared at the final picture. Rather than an animal, actual or mythological, this was some kind of devil. It had a protruding tongue and short horns, black hair all over its body, and a barbed tail. It glared out of the page, and seemed to be looking right at them.

"Now he's unpleasant," murmured Aramis, the first to find his voice. "What's it supposed to be?"

"Some kind of imp?" Athos suggested. 

"Close the book for God's sake Athos, you'll give us all nightmares," d'Artagnan said with a shudder. Athos obliged without demur, glad enough himself to have the disturbing creature out of his sight. He wrapped the protective cloth back round the manuscript, and they retreated to the armchairs to discuss their find.

"Well Porthos," said Aramis, into a lull in the conversation. "What would you say to half a small fortune?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Aramis smiled. "Well, given Athos' estimation it sounds like the sale of the thing would fetch a pretty penny. I have little inclination to give such a hideous thing houseroom, and therefore no objections to selling it. As ownership seems to be - disputed - I thought perhaps you would see your way to accepting half the proceeds?"

Porthos gaped at him open-mouthed as Athos and d'Artagnan exchanged a look of pleased surprise.

"Well, I - I - " Porthos seemed speechless, and Aramis laughed.

"I'll take that as a yes then."

"That's very generous of you," Porthos managed. "Beyond generous. After what I tried to do - "

Aramis waved away his concerns. "Forgotten," he told him. "And it sounds like you'll put the money to much better use then me." He smirked. "I shall probably just fritter it away on alcohol and cigarettes." 

"Don't forget your friends, will you?" Athos murmured with a teasing smile and Aramis threw his head back and laughed. 

"A case of best claret for you shall be the first thing I buy," Aramis promised. "What would you like d'Artagnan?"

Conversation continued in this pleasant vein for the rest of the evening, and somehow despite the excitement of the discovery nobody showed any inclination to look at the book again. Athos made a passing comment to the effect it would be better examined in daylight and everyone eagerly seized on this, faintly relieved to defer the moment they would have to set eyes on the disturbing illustrations once more.

When it was time for bed, Porthos and Athos walked together through the darkened hall and up the spiral stair, which felt somehow more claustrophobic than ever. They were glad of each other's company, and paused at Athos' door to say goodnight. 

Porthos looked up into the darkness of the final flight up to his own room, and swallowed. Somehow putting his hand into the mysterious hole under the floorboards had needed less courage than it would need to walk up there alone.

Athos was looking at him from the door, candle in hand, and it took every ounce of determination Porthos had not to turn back and beg Athos to let him sleep in his room once more.

Halfway up, the light from below cut off as Athos closed his door, and Porthos almost tripped in his haste to gain his bedroom. It suddenly felt like he wasn't alone on the stair, and it was nothing like the comforting sense of having Athos at his side.

Porthos closed the door with a sigh of relief, and lit all the candles in the room from the one he carried. This merely seemed to deepen the shadows in between, and he got ready for bed with a sense of prickling unease between his shoulderblades, as if he was being watched.

Fighting off the unreasonable fear that something was going to grab his ankles from under the bed, Porthos pulled back the bedclothes with a sigh. It took a second to register that there was something lying on the sheet below; in the wavering candlelight he took it for a fold in the cloth. Then it moved.

Recoiling with horror, Porthos saw with a sense of disbelief that it was a snake. He'd dropped the blankets back over it in his instinctive urge to back away, and now realised this had been a huge mistake, as he could no longer see it.

In the room below, Athos heard the cry and a crash, as it sounded like Porthos stumbled across the floor. He frowned, sitting up in bed and listening for further noises as he wondered if Porthos was alright. He had no wish to embarrass the man if he'd just tripped on the rug, but on the other hand it had felt like everyone was on edge this evening. Maybe it was just the shock of the fire, Athos thought. If they hadn't acted as quickly as they had, it could have been a lot more serious.

A further series of small creaks suggested that Porthos was at least walking around and hadn't actually knocked himself unconscious, but Athos wasn't terribly surprised when there was a tentative knock on his door a few minutes later.

Climbing out of bed again to open it, he found Porthos standing on the stairs looking embarrassed and shaken.

"Hello. Is everything alright?"

Porthos cleared his throat. "I don't suppose - " he broke off, looking more miserable than ever, and Athos took pity on him.

"Did you want to sleep in here again?" 

"Would you mind?" Porthos asked, feeling silly.

"No, of course not." Athos was by nature a rather solitary soul, but he had to admit even with his suspicions about the man he'd found comfort in Porthos' presence last night. Whether it was the effect of sleeping in a strange room or just the coldness of the house, Athos suspected he would have had a far worse night's sleep had he remained alone.

"What happened just now?" Athos asked curiously, regaining the warm sanctuary of the bedclothes. "I heard a crash?"

Porthos climbed in beside him and looked sheepish. "I think I was seeing things," he confessed after a second. "I thought there was something in my bed, but I pulled all the blankets off and shook them and there was nothing there. And I don't see how there could have been. It's just - I could have sworn - " he broke off and sighed. "Maybe I'm not used to drinking brandy before bed," he said, and Athos smiled.

"What did you think you saw?" he asked, expecting Porthos to say a spider, or a mouse.

"A snake."

"A snake!" 

"I know, I know. Not likely, is it?" Porthos sighed.

"What sort of snake?"

Porthos shrugged. "I don't know, I'm not a zoologist. A thin black one. I pulled back the blankets and there it was, plain as day. Except - then it wasn't. Gave me the creeps though. I'm sorry to impose on you like this."

"That's alright." Athos thought of something. "Maybe it was the book? You said the snake picture gave you nightmares before. Maybe it just stirred up memories. Childhood impressions can be very lasting."

"Perhaps you're right." Porthos was grateful to Athos for being so understanding, although he was still half-convinced there might be an actual snake in his room. As far as he was concerned though, any further searches could be undertaken in daylight.

Beside him Athos reached out to the lamp and hesitated. Then frowned, cross with himself for being shaken by fancies, and turned it out. He lay there watching the fading glow of the wick until the darkness was complete, then closed his eyes firmly.

\--

Aramis was preparing for bed and had paused to sit at the open window, smoking a last cigarette and looking out over the moonlit snow. It was cold but beautiful, and so silent after the city that he never failed to marvel at it. 

The slight noises from the room next door had ceased a while ago, and he guessed d'Artagnan was already asleep. It was nice to have people in the house, he'd been here alone for several days before their arrival, and while it hadn't particularly troubled him, he preferred company.

When Athos had asked if he could bring a friend Aramis had been both surprised and pleased for him, and wouldn't have batted an eyelid if they'd indicated they wanted to share a room. But there didn't seem to be anything of that sort going on, and from what Athos had said there wasn't likely to be.

Suddenly there came a loud and frantic hammering on his door and Aramis almost jumped out of his skin. He flicked the end of his cigarette out of the window and hurried to the door, concerned that someone had been taken ill.

Outside was d'Artagnan, looking dishevelled in his nightshirt.

"Is everything all right?" Aramis asked, seeing how shaken he looked.

"I think your house is haunted," d'Artagnan declared, much to Aramis' astonishment.

"Haunted! Whatever do you mean?" It crossed his mind that this might be a ruse to come into his room, and was quite willing to go along with it - but d'Artagnan looked genuinely disturbed.

"There's something in my room. And given that I was alone when I went to bed, I don't much care to find out what it is, flapping round my head like that."

He sounded indignant and flustered, and underneath it all quite scared, and Aramis had the suppress the urge to take him into his arms, feeling that it probably wouldn't do much for d'Artagnan's sense of dignity.

"Well I've been sleeping here alone for a week, and nothing's gone bump in the night so far," Aramis said with a rather suggestive smile. "Are you sure it wasn't just a dream?"

D'Artagnan looked more indignant than ever and Aramis apologised. "Would you like me to take a look?"

"Would you?" D'Artagnan asked, clearly relieved. He tagged along close on Aramis' heels as he walked the short distance into d'Artagnan's bedroom. 

To the light of Aramis' oil lamp it appeared empty enough, and he performed a cursory search, not entirely sure what he was looking for and inclined to think d'Artagnan had had a nightmare.

"Well, if there was a spook here it seems to have go- what the hell?" Aramis ducked as something swooped at his head, clawing at his hair. He stumbled back towards d'Artagnan in the doorway, and for a second they clutched at each other in mutual alarm.

No further attacks were forthcoming, and Aramis lifted the lamp again, determined to find out what was going on. From the curtain pole big yellow eyes glared down at him.

"There's your ghost," he told d'Artagnan, starting to laugh with relief. "An owl. It must have come in the window." The casement was standing open as his had been, and Aramis assumed d'Artagnan had been looking out at the snow in much the same manner. 

He grabbed a towel from the back of a chair and flapped at the bird, which snapped its beak at them and ruffled its feathers crossly. Eventually Aramis managed to persuade it back out of the window, and fastened it securely shut.

"There. All safe again," he smiled. D'Artagnan blushed.

"I feel like such a fool."

"Oh come now, no need for that. I'm sure I'd have been equally thrown if it had happened to me. Look, come and have a drink, it'll settle your nerves."

Aramis lead d'Artagnan back to his room and poured them both a stiff brandy. He was quietly pleased when d'Artagnan settled next to him on the bed.

"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan murmured, looking into his glass. "For putting you to such trouble."

"Think nothing of it," Aramis said. "I should be sad to think you felt in any way unsafe in my house." 

D'Artagnan laughed and Aramis looked quizzical. "I've amused you?"

D'Artagnan tried unsuccessfully to hide the smile. "It's just - you're so different from Athos."

Aramis smiled. "Not so different in some ways," he said softly.

"You've known him a long time?" 

"Over ten years. We were at university together."

D'Artagnan looked thoughtful, curling his legs under him comfortably and setting his glass on the nightstand. "You know - there are rumours about him," he ventured. "People talk."

"Do they?" Aramis asked, sounding amused and non-committal.

"It's just - he's never - most other men of his age are married. Or at least courting." 

"Athos has never really had time for women," Aramis murmured, and d'Artagnan frowned at the number of ways that could be taken.

"You like him, don't you?" Aramis asked softly, after d'Artagnan had been silent for a while. 

D'Artagnan's blush was readily visible in the lamplight, but when he realised Aramis was in no way reproving, he sighed.

"I thought - coming away with him like this - he might finally notice me," d'Artagnan confessed in a low voice.

"And yet you chose the room next to mine?" 

D’Artagnan picked at the hem of his nightshirt. "I thought perhaps he would - that Athos would suggest we - " he faltered, and Aramis patted his knee.

"You hoped to share a room?" he supplied, and d'Artagnan nodded gratefully. 

"When it was clear he didn't want to, I suppose I picked the nicer of the rooms left," d'Artagnan said, and smiled. "And now I'm glad I did."

When he'd been first alarmed by what he could only at the time rationalise as being some kind of ghost, d'Artagnan's first thought had been to run to Athos. But that would have entailed going down the stairs and across the darkened great hall and up another flight, and there had been a light showing under Aramis' door, and really things had worked out rather well, all told.

Aramis' hand was still resting on his knee, and d'Artagnan could feel himself blushing again. Then Aramis seemed to recollect something and withdrew his hand with a click of self-reproach.

"Aramis?"

"I promised I'd behave myself," Aramis muttered ruefully. D'Artagnan frowned.

"Promised who? Promised what?"

"That I'd keep my hands to myself where you were concerned," Aramis admitted, with a glimmer of amusement.

"But who did you - _Athos?_ " d'Artagnan guessed incredulously.

"He's very protective of you," Aramis murmured.

D'Artagnan blushed darker than ever, to think that Athos should have been picturing this, talking about it even. There was also a spike of annoyance that Athos should be managing his affairs without his knowledge. And under it all, a shiver of arousal. He wasn’t quite sure what it was he'd wanted Athos to do to him, but he was increasingly sure that whatever it was, he would be equally pleased for Aramis to do it. Perhaps more so.

"I'm not a child," he said aloud, hoping it didn’t sound self-defeatingly petulant. But Aramis smiled at him.

"I can see that," he said softly, eyes fixed on the folds of d'Artagnan's nightshirt, beneath which were definite stirrings. He let his hand return to d’Artagnan’s leg, higher up this time and the little intake of breath this prompted had his own cock stiffening in an instant, making Aramis glad of the heavy dressing gown he wore.

He slid his hand further up, pushing the material with it, watching d’Artagnan’s nightshirt rising steadily over his growing erection. 

"We shouldn't," Aramis whispered theatrically, captivated by d'Artagnan's wide eyed look of startled arousal. "Athos'll kill me."

"It's not up to him," objected d'Artagnan, nervous and excited by the hand still moving up his thigh, and by the neatly bearded mouth so close to his own clean-shaven one. 

Aramis smiled delightedly, and d'Artagnan gave a breathy laugh. 

"Are you sure you want this?" Aramis asked, holding d'Artagnan's eyes with a serious gaze. 

Hardly knowing what 'this' was, but certain the answer was an emphatic yes, d'Artagnan nodded, his chest too tight with need and nerves to find words.

In the next moment Aramis had kissed him, at once masterful and tender, and d'Artagnan practically fell into his arms. He'd kissed one or two girls of his acquaintance before, but it had never been like this. 

D’Artagnan couldn't hide his instant and full arousal, and in the next moment the quivering pleasure he was experiencing from the kiss alone was infinitely intensified when Aramis' hand slipped boldly beneath his nightshirt and encircled his cock.

It took every shred of his remaining self control not to ejaculate on the spot. D'Artagnan pulled back a little, from the kiss if not from Aramis' determined hand, and attempted to master himself.

Aramis, satisfying himself that d'Artagnan's hesitation was not reluctance, helped him lift the nightshirt off over his head, and let his own dressing gown fall away.

He pulled back the covers and lay d'Artagnan down in his bed, discarding his own nightshirt and letting d'Artagnan see for the first time that Aramis' cock was standing as proudly as his.

"You're beautiful," Aramis told him softly, as he knelt between d'Artagnan's legs.

D'Artagnan watched in speechless wonder as Aramis took him into his mouth, licking around him like warm heaven. He groaned helplessly, bucking between those wickedly smiling lips, feeling Aramis suckling at his cockhead.

"I - I can't - " was all d'Artagnan could manage before losing all control and coming with a convulsive shudder.

Aramis crawled up the bed and settled next to him with a smirk, delicately wiping his beard with a fastidious thumb. It was dawning on d'Artagnan that Aramis had just swallowed everything he had shamefully spilled into his mouth, and the thought made him hot all over again.

"Was that good?" Aramis asked solicitously, puling the covers over them for warmth. 

D'Artagnan attempted to form an answer, and then to his huge embarrassment was caught by a wide yawn.

Aramis laughed, wrapping an arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders and wriggling up against him. d'Artagnan curled into his side, willing enough should Aramis wish to continue their adventures, but Aramis turned down the lamp and wrapped him in his arms with a kiss, his cock pressed snugly against d'Artagnan's hip, content not to rush things.

They slept deeply, and if owls' wings battered the window glass in the night, neither were aware of it.

\--

On the far side of the house, Athos woke in the small hours, sensible of a scrabbling noise somewhere nearby. It was an unpleasant sound, but he put it down to mice in the wainscoting. Porthos was snoring beside him, and Athos found he was again glad of his warm presence as he closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

-(tbc)-


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for dubcon in this chapter.

"So. Plans for the day?" Aramis leaned back in his seat after breakfast, and regarded the others.

"I thought I would make a start cataloguing the contents of the manuscript," said Athos. "Then once the snow's gone down enough to get to the post office I can send a description to the - well, to the British Library," he said with a faintly apologetic glance at Porthos, who grinned at him. "Then they can advise us on likely value and provenance."

"Well I think I'll go and cut some greenery," Aramis announced. "Decorate the hall up a bit. It is Christmas in a couple of days, after all."

"I'll help you if you like," d'Artagnan offered immediately, and coloured up slightly when Aramis smiled at him.

"What about you Porthos?" Aramis asked. "Want to help?" d'Artagnan frowned jealously at this, but Porthos shook his head anyway.

"Sounds decidedly cold and wet to me," he declared. "Think I'll stop inside and help Athos. Or hinder, anyway," he amended and Athos gave a distracted smile, but he was mostly watching the way d'Artagnan was gazing at Aramis. 

As they washed up the breakfast things, Athos found himself alone with d'Artagnan, who still had a dreamy smile on his face.

"Why have you kept him to yourself for so long?" d'Artagnan sighed eventually.

"Who?" Athos looked confused.

"Aramis."

"He seems to have made quite an impression on you," said Athos rather acidly.

"He's wonderful." d'Artagnan stopped mid-plate, dripping soap suds all over the floor. He glanced sideways at Athos, registering his expression and abruptly remembering the fact Athos had warned Aramis off. "Don't worry about me. I know what I'm doing," he said, meaning to reassure and only managing to leave Athos infinitely more worried than he had been a second ago. 

With a building anger, Athos left d'Artagnan to the dishes and went in search of Aramis.

"I want a word with you," he said crossly, finding Aramis in the great hall estimating sizes for the decorations. Athos grabbed him by the arm and propelled him across the room away from the kitchen door, shoving him none too gently against the opposite wall.

"You promised," Athos hissed furiously. "You promised me you wouldn't touch him!"

Aramis sighed. "What's your problem?"

"He's barely more than a child - "

"Oh come off it Athos, you know damn well that at his age we were fucking each other senseless."

"That was different."

"How?"

" _We_ were different. Too cynical for our own good." Athos looked troubled. "You think it's the sex I care about? I'm not such a prude as all that. But he's so innocent. Impressionable. He thinks he's in love with you for God's sake."

Aramis looked startled. "Don't be ridiculous!" he retorted. "Did he say that?" he added uncertainly after a second.

"He didn't have to, it's written all over his face."

"It was just a bit of fun," said Aramis uncomfortably.

"Well he's besotted with you." Athos stuck a furious finger in Aramis' face. "If you dare break his heart, or blacken his name, I'll - "

"You'll what?" Aramis asked calmly, and Athos lowered his hand, sagging defeatedly. 

"Just - don't. Don't hurt him Aramis. For his sake, if not mine."

"You care about him, don't you?"

"Yes." Athos sighed. "Not like you mean. I just - I brought him here Aramis, I'm responsible for him."

They looked at each other for a moment, and Aramis gave him a tentative smile. "So, we're good?"

Athos nodded reluctantly, and Aramis gave him a hug. "I would never hurt him," he promised.

"You would never mean to," Athos corrected dryly. "You forget how long I've known you."

Aramis laughed, unabashed, and they walked away together. 

After a second, unobserved by either of them, the nearby bathroom door creaked open and Porthos slipped out, looking thoughtful.

\--

"Argh!"

Aramis, his arms full of fir and holly, looked back to where d'Artagnan had dropped half his load in the snow and was hopping about in apparent distress.

"Whatever's the matter?"

"The snow went over the top of my boot. It's all cold and wet!" d'Artagnan complained. 

"Just a few more trips and we should have enough," Aramis grinned, as d'Artagnan brushed the snow off a garden seat and sat down, hot and bothered and scratched all over from the foliage.

"I need a rest. Do you think we could convince Athos to bring us out some tea?"

Aramis sat next to him, laughing. "I think you'd have more chance of convincing the tea to bring Athos."

They sat there in companionable silence for a while, and if d'Artagnan shifted closer to him for the warmth, Aramis didn't have the heart to push him away.

" _Is_ there a lake?" d'Artagnan asked suddenly, apropos of nothing, and Aramis laughed.

"Have you been holding a conversation in your head? What are you talking about?"

D'Artagnan shrugged. "Blackmere Manor. Mere means lake, right? I just wondered if there actually was a lake, or if it was just fanciful naming."

"Oh, I see. Well there's some sort of pond effort over behind the shrubbery," said Aramis. "Not sure I'd dignify it with the term lake."

"Can we go and have a look?" asked d'Artagnan eagerly, hoping to avoid lugging heavy branches across deep snow for a bit longer.

Aramis smiled at him indulgently. "Yes, if you like. It's not much to look at though."

They trudged through the snow arm in arm, with the excuse that it gave them better balance over the uneven ground. 

Soon they were under a copse of dark dripping trees, mostly rhododendrons that shut out the light. Roots squirmed beneath the snow and now they had to genuinely grip each other's arms for balance. 

At the very edge of the lake the tangled roots dipped in and out like serpents through spreading ice, although the centre was clear. The water there was black and uninviting, and d’Artagnan shivered involuntarily.

As they made their way carefully around the perimeter, Aramis attempted to describe how nice it would be in high summer, but even to d'Artagnan's ears he didn't sound convinced. 

Ducking under a swathe of wet fir, they came to a place where the snow was churned and brown.

"Looks like something fell in," d'Artagnan said in surprise. The trail led right to the water's edge. "Something big. A deer, do you think, poor thing?"

"I was thinking it looked more like something dragged itself out," said Aramis thoughtfully, and d'Artagnan gave him a look of horrified confusion. "I just meant - like you say, maybe a deer or something. But the way the water's splashed and frozen over the snow it looks like whatever it was, it was going the other way."

They followed the trail away from the lake, but it petered out once the cover of trees ended, hidden by fresh snowfalls. 

"What do you say we go in for lunch?" Aramis asked, shivering slightly. The atmosphere under the dripping trees had been depressing, and he was cold inside and out. D’Artagnan agreed immediately with some relief, and they made their way back to the house.

\--

For most of the morning Athos had been writing out in a neat hand a detailed description of each page of the manuscript. He had wire-framed spectacles hooked over his nose, a smudge of ink on his cheek, and his hair was sticking up slightly where he'd pushed a distracted hand into it.

Across the room Porthos sat in an arm chair close to the library fireplace, ostensibly reading a book but mostly watching Athos and thinking about what he'd overheard earlier that morning.

Athos, finishing a page, pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

"How's it going?" Porthos asked.

Athos looked over in surprise, as if he'd forgotten Porthos was there. "Almost done. Just one more page to go." He turned the leaf over and frowned. "That's odd."

Porthos came over and looked over his shoulder. "What is?"

"Well, I could have sworn that imp thing was on the last page." The page open on the table had the usual cramped Latin text and decorative border, but was empty of any illustration. 

"I must have turned over two together - oh." Athos discovered that this was in fact the final page of the book. He flipped back in confusion, but the previous illustration was the tentacled seamonster. "How odd." He looked up at Porthos for confirmation he wasn't going mad, and was mildly relieved to find the man looking as confused as he felt.

"It was definitely at the back," Porthos ventured. 

"I thought so. D'Artagnan made me close the book, so maybe it wasn't the last page after all, but - " Athos turned carefully through the whole manuscript, but the drawing of the imp wasn't to be found and he ended up back at the empty frame on the final leaf.

"Perhaps the page was loose," Athos suggested. "One of the others might have set it aside if it fell out."

"We can ask them," Porthos said, hearing the clatter of feet out in the hall as Aramis and d'Artagnan came back inside.

"Aramis. Did you put the imp drawing somewhere?" Athos asked as they walked in.

"What are you talking about?" Aramis asked in surprise.

"The imp from the book, the page is missing. I just wondered if you'd taken it out or something."

"No fear," Aramis said with conviction. "I'd lose no sleep if I never had to set eyes on the beastly thing again. Why, is it missing?"

"Seems to be," Athos frowned. "D'Artagnan, have you seen it?"

"No way," said d'Artagnan, shaking his head. "Take a page out of a rare book? You'd have my hide!"

"But you must have!" Porthos interjected. "If it wasn't us - "

"What are you implying?" d'Artagnan demanded hotly, swinging round to stare at him. 

"Well, I didn't take it, and Athos didn't, and I don't see that Aramis would have, given that it belongs to him anyway - "

"I'd have thought if anyone was more likely to be hiding things it was you," d’Artagnan shot back. "You were the one who came here to steal it in the first place!"

They were glaring at each other, almost ready to come to blows, when Athos stepped between them.

"Gentlemen," he said, calmly reproving. "I'm sure there's a simple explanation. Perhaps it simply came loose and has blown under the sideboard or something."

"I didn't take it," d'Artagnan insisted pleadingly and Athos saw he had tears of frustration and anxiety in his eyes as he grabbed the front of Athos' jacket. "Athos, I would never - "

"It's alright," Athos told him soothingly. "I believe you. Hush, I believe you."

Staring at him until he was sure Athos was sincere, d'Artagnan gave a muffled sob of relief, and Athos pulled him into an awkward hug. 

"Now stop that." Athos patted him on the back gently. "Nobody's accusing anyone of anything, do you hear? There must be a rational explanation."

"Come and help me with lunch," Aramis said quietly, drawing d'Artagnan away with an arm round his shoulders. 

When they'd gone, Athos and Porthos made a cursory search underneath the various items of furniture in the room, but found nothing and hadn't particularly expected to. They ended up standing over the empty page once more.

"I swear I didn't take it," Porthos said quietly. Athos looked at him, then nodded slowly.

"Well I know I didn't. And you're right, Aramis would have no reason to."

"And d'Artagnan?"

"I would stake my reputation on d'Artagnan's honesty," Athos said quietly.

"So where did it go?" 

They stared at the book, neither wanting to be the one to put into words what they were both thinking. That yesterday, the imp in all its hideous glory had been right there on that very page.

"I suppose - " Athos started, then broke off.

"What?"

"There are certain inks - what if it had been painted in such a way as to evaporate on contact with the air?" Athos ventured.

"Oh, I like that idea," said Porthos immediately. "I really like that idea."

"You don’t think it's too fanciful?"

"Not as fanciful as the alternative," said Porthos with a shudder.

Athos closed the book with a decisive slap entirely at odds with its fragile nature. "Come on. Let's join the others at lunch," he said. "I've had enough of this for one day."

\--

They spent the afternoon decorating the hall with the foliage Aramis and d'Artagnan had collected, fir and holly and ivy and even some mistletoe. Aramis had found a box of red candles and ribbons and painted fircones that had been his uncle's and by the time they were finished everything looked very festive and everyone was in a much better humour.

After supper Aramis retreated to the large ground floor bathroom for a soak. He was in two minds about how to proceed with d'Artagnan. On one hand he liked him very much, and was eager to see how far the young man could be persuaded to go. On the other, he was conscious of Athos' warning, and had no wish to risk falling out with him. 

He undressed and stepped into the deep ceramic bathtub with a hiss of pleasure as the hot water soothed his aching back. He'd spent the day hauling branches about and running up and down ladders, and was starting to feel it. It had also crossed his mind that it wouldn't hurt to be totally clean, if things with d'Artagnan were about to progress along rather more intimate lines.

It was quiet in the bathroom, being located beneath the stair to Athos and Porthos' rooms and at the opposite end of the hall from the kitchen and library. The others had retreated to the cosier parlour room upstairs, and Aramis was quite alone, the only noise the occasional drip of the tap echoing off the tiled walls.

He closed his eyes and sank into the water, head resting on the rim, and nose just above the steaming surface. 

Aramis was drowsing, the warm water lulling him into a peaceful state of mind. Suddenly, half asleep, he felt something touch his leg and jerked awake, sloshing water over the side. To his surprise the room was empty. He'd wondered for a moment if d'Artagnan had sneaked in, until he remembered he'd locked the door.

He groped in the bath, coming up with his flannel. Aramis sighed, lying back again and laughing at himself for being so jumpy. It was d'Artagnan's fault he decided, all his daft talk of ghosts the night before. 

Aramis closed his eyes again, sliding under the surface to submerge his shoulders. It was cold outside the water, and he was debating whether to run in more hot, or whether the others would complain if he used it all.

A soft touch against his calf, and he frowned, thinking that the flannel must have slipped off the edge of the bath again. It slithered round his ankle and Aramis lazily moved his leg, drawing up his knee in an attempt to avoid it. Somehow though the touch followed him and he opened his eyes in annoyance. 

The first thing he saw was the flannel still draped wetly over the side of the bath.

And then he saw no more because whatever was wrapped around his ankle suddenly gave a vicious heave and he slid right below the surface of the water.

Coughing and spluttering, Aramis fought his way up, trying to gain a purchase on the slippery ceramic curve of the bathtub. He was kicking and struggling, but something was winding itself tighter and tighter around his legs, and he barely had time to snatch a breath before he went down for a second time.

His vision was starting to blur and his chest was burning. He had no idea what was happening, only knew that he was being attacked, that something - someone? - was trying to drown him. His arms were pinned, and as he broke the surface again he thought he heard a distant banging. He tried to scream, but only half a noise came out and suddenly his mouth was full of water.

"Aramis!" D'Artagnan burst through the door and found Aramis thrashing beneath the surface. He hauled his head above water and held him there while Aramis choked and clung to him.

Athos and Porthos arrived moments later, confused and alarmed, and helped Aramis out of the bath, wrapping him in towels and his dressing gown and calming him down. 

\--

"Whatever happened?" Athos asked, once Aramis was curled in a chair in the parlour with a large brandy, d'Artagnan sitting at his feet with a concerned hand on his knee.

"Something tried to kill me," Aramis declared, and they all stared at him in astonishment. He coloured. "I'm not imagining it. Something pulled me under!"

"Like what?" Athos pressed. "There was nothing there."

Aramis stared at him in consternation. "Maybe it went down the drain?"

"The plug was still in," Porthos said. 

"Well - but - " Aramis looked at them in confusion and alarm. "I'm not crazy!"

"Nobody's saying you are," d’Artagnan said soothingly.

Aramis placed a grateful hand over his. "If you hadn't come in - how did you know?"

D'Artagnan blushed. "I was coming to see if you - if you needed anything." He avoided Athos' eyes. "And it sounded like you were - I don’t know, having a fit or something. In trouble, anyway. I knocked, and then I heard you scream, and - " he flushed deeper red. "I broke the lock in."

"We heard the crash," Athos added. "And came to see what the devil was going on."

Aramis shuddered. "I don't know what to say. All I know is what I felt. Something had hold of me in there. Something that wanted to kill me." He extended his leg from the folds of the towel, and examined a red mark on his calf. "Look, you want proof? It did that."

"What's that supposed to be?" Porthos asked, squinting.

"A sucker or something," Aramis said firmly. "From the thing that attacked me."

"Or - you fell asleep in the bath, had a nightmare, nearly drowned yourself and hit your leg on the tap," Athos suggested prosaically. 

Aramis glared at him. "You're saying you don't believe me?"

"I'm saying it's more likely than you being attacked by an invisible squid," said Athos calmly. "That then vanished without a trace."

Aramis subsided huffily, mollified only by d'Artagnan's attentive looks and touches and frequent refilling of his glass.

Still shaken, Aramis turned in early and d'Artagnan promptly yawned and declared he was going too, walking out boldly under Athos' disapproving but silent glare.

\--

Not long after Aramis' door had closed behind him there came a timid knock, and he wasn't at all surprised to find d'Artagnan standing there. 

"Come in." 

D'Artagnan, clad only in his nightshirt, immediately sat on the bed and looked expectantly up at him.

Aramis sat down next to him more slowly and sighed.

"What is it?" d'Artagnan asked softly. 

"Athos."

"What about him?" d’Artagnan demanded, rather more irritably. 

"He knows. About us."

"You told him?"

"No. I thought you had." Aramis laughed. "Too sharp for his own good."

"It's none of his business."

"He's protective that's all. He thinks I'm going to break your heart."

"Are you?" d'Artagnan smiled.

Aramis hesitated for a beat too long and d'Artagnan's smile faltered. "Athos worries too much."

"He knows me better than you do."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Aramis took his hand. "I'm not - the world's best at monogamy," he admitted.

D'Artagnan stared at him in some confusion. "Is there someone else then?"

"No."

"But - you're saying there might be," d'Artagnan hazarded. "At some point?"

Aramis nodded regretfully. 

"Well. That's honest, at least," said d’Artagnan, feeling rather breathlessly scandalised.

"I would never hurt you intentionally," Aramis said. "But Athos is right. My track record - isn't great. I'll understand, if you would prefer not to pursue this."

D’Artagnan considered for a moment, then made up his mind.

"I'm not like Athos," he said, cupping Aramis' cheek in his hand. "I would rather have my heart broken a thousand times, than never risk it at all." And he leaned forward and kissed Aramis deliberately on the mouth.

\--

Left alone, Athos and Porthos sat for a while longer in companionable silence, enjoying the warmth of the dying fire and savouring the last of their drinks. Athos was preoccupied though, casting occasional glances in the direction of Aramis and d’Artagnan’s rooms. The walls of the old house were far too thick for any sounds to emanate through, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. 

Porthos watched him discreetly, wondering what he was thinking. It had been blatant, the way the others had gone off together, although Porthos was faintly amused to think that if he hadn't overheard what he had earlier, he'd have thought nothing of it.

Now though, he knew what they were probably doing, knew what Athos was probably picturing. Thought about Athos and Aramis together, wondered if Athos had ever had d'Artagnan. He was getting hard thinking about it, and covered his lap guiltily with a book. 

When they finally left the warmth of the parlour to go to bed, and hurried shivering across the un-homely expanse of the hall, Porthos was too preoccupied to notice whether there were any untoward presences to be felt on the staircase tonight.

At the door to Athos' room they both paused, and Athos inclined his head. "Are you coming in?" he invited without prompting, and Porthos restrained an unseemly grin. 

"If you don't mind," he murmured, ducking his head so Athos wouldn’t notice his expression. He was wondering now if Athos had wanted him to make a move before this. 

Two nights they'd lain next to each other, had Athos been lying awake, thinking about him, wanting him? Carried away with his own fantasies, Porthos managed to conveniently forget that on both occasions it had been him who'd asked to sleep with Athos.

As they got ready for bed, Porthos kept looking over at Athos for any hint of encouragement, but Athos seemed wrapped up in his own thoughts as usual.

"I've got a confession to make," Porthos said eventually, as they were about to get into bed.

"Another one?" said Athos dryly, and Porthos blinked, before realising what he meant and clearing his throat awkwardly. 

"Well. Yes. Not quite on the same scale though. I, er. I overheard something earlier. Something I probably shouldn’t have."

"Then I suggest you don't repeat it," said Athos, assuming he'd heard some whispered declaration between Aramis and d'Artagnan and not interested in encouraging gossip.

"I was in the bathroom you see," Porthos continued. "And there were voices outside, so I waited a second to come out. I didn’t want to intrude." He paused, but either Athos was being deliberately obtuse, or hadn’t realised where he'd been standing at the time.

"It was you. And Aramis?"

Athos finally looked up at him in shock, as the implications of what Porthos was saying sank in. His expression, rather than adopting any of the knowing and encouraging looks Porthos had hoped for by hinting he knew the inclinations of the other three men, became hard.

"I'm sure I don't know what you thought you heard, but - "

"It was quite clear," Porthos interrupted. 

Athos' face closed down even further. "Then I'm not sure what you expect of me. Is this a question of blackmail?"

Porthos gaped at him in utter shock. "No!" he blurted. "God, Athos, no, that's not - I would never - no, please, believe me when I say your secret is safe with me." 

Athos relaxed a fraction, but remained coldly aloof. "Their secret, not mine," he demurred. "I have no part in this, other than that of unwitting catalyst. Their decisions are their own."

"And what of you and Aramis?" Porthos coaxed, still hoping to get Athos onto an altogether friendlier footing.

Athos looked doubly taken aback, realising for the first time just how much Porthos had overheard and put together.

"The folly of youth," he muttered. "And something you can hardly expect to hold against me now."

"No?" Porthos came closer. "What would you like me to hold against you?" he asked wickedly, and was rewarded by the sight of a dark blush rising in Athos' cheeks.

"You can't imagine that I would - " Athos faltered, taking a step backwards and turning quickly away. 

"You'd be surprised what I can imagine," said Porthos in a low voice. He stepped up behind Athos and slipped an arm around his waist, pulling him back against him. Porthos was hard, and let Athos feel his arousal, pressed snugly against the curve of his buttocks.

"Take your hands off me," said Athos hoarsely, but he made no move to pull away and instead Porthos let his hand trail down until he could feel the swell of Athos' cock beneath the cotton nightshirt. He stroked him, and was encouraged by the fact Athos reacted immediately, stiffening and thickening beneath his fingers.

Athos was as tense as a whip, and at the touch of Porthos' hand in such an intimate place, had drawn in a sharp breath.

"Let go of me," Athos said, his voice low and shaking. "Please."

"Walk away then," Porthos rumbled in his ear. Athos immediately moved forward, and Porthos quickly wrapped his other arm around him, tight against Athos' stomach.

Athos stopped moving, standing quiescent in Porthos' hold. Porthos grinned, taking his immediate surrender as a sign of his willingness. Athos was fully hard under his hand, and Porthos stroked him through the folds of linen.

"No," Athos breathed, although he was pressing back against Porthos' chest rather than pulling away. "Please don't do this. Please."

"You don't mean that," Porthos whispered with a smile, moving his hand all the quicker. Before much longer Athos gave a stifled cry that was almost a sob, and Porthos felt a spreading wetness under his hand.

Porthos finally let him go and Athos stumbled forward, leaning over the dressing table, gasping for breath, his shoulders shaking.

It took several seconds for Porthos to realise he was crying.

"Athos?" he called, uncertainly, the smile of satisfaction fading from his face. "Athos, what's wrong?"

Athos made no answer, merely tried to stifle the helpless, breathy sobs that were hiccupping out of him. Porthos closed the gap between them and pulled Athos round into his arms.

"Athos! No - no, don’t, please. Don’t cry. I'm sorry. I never meant - " Porthos tried to wipe his tears away, patting at him almost frantically, trying to understand where it had all gone wrong. Athos was shaking, bewildered, as if he didn’t know what to do with himself, and Porthos felt a wash of relief as Athos finally collapsed into his embrace and let Porthos hold him tightly.

"I'm sorry," Porthos repeated, over and over, pecking kisses into Athos' hair and holding him close. 

Finally Athos pulled himself together enough to stand up straight, and Porthos let him pull away slightly.

"I'm sorry," Porthos whispered again, contrite and horrified at Athos' shattered reaction. "I honestly thought you wanted it."

Athos looked at him, shaken and bleak. "I did," he mouthed.

"What?" Porthos frowned, now utterly lost.

"I did. Want it. Every sordid, shameful second," Athos confessed under his breath, although he looked far from happy about it.

"Then why the tears?" Porthos demanded, although he kept his voice low, and kept hold of Athos' hands. 

Athos looked away. "Because I'm so ashamed," he whispered. 

"Athos." Porthos wrapped his arms around him again, although this time it was comforting rather than restraining. "Don't be," he murmured, pressing his lips to Athos' mouth warmly. "You don't need to be ashamed."

"How can you say that?" Athos choked, looking stricken and disbelieving.

"How can you not?" Porthos kissed him again, and was overjoyed to feel Athos return the pressure of his lips, just slightly. "How can you deny yourself?"

"It's wrong," Athos protested, but when Porthos kissed him a third time he let Porthos have his way, his tongue slipping into Athos' mouth, hot and insistent. Athos leaned into his arms without really meaning to, and Porthos held him tightly.

"Do you want this?" Porthos whispered. "Do you want me? I swear no-one else need ever know."

"I - " Athos was clearly wavering, and Porthos smiled at him, gently this time.

"I want you," Porthos continued. "I wanted you from the first moment I set eyes on you, but I didn’t think until today that I might have a chance."

"When did the world become so - " Athos groped for the word. "Wicked?"

"Wicked?" Porthos laughed. "If it's wicked to feel like this, then so be it. Let me sin with you Athos. Let's sin so hard we find heaven."

At that Athos gave a quiet laugh, and Porthos beamed at him, triumphant. He lifted the hem of Athos' nightshirt and pulled it off over his head, and Athos didn’t protest. Porthos used it to clean him of the streaks of semen from his earlier climax, and pushed him gently down on the bed.

Athos sat there, naked, and watched Porthos pull off his own nightshirt. His body gleamed in the candlelight, muscled and strong, and Athos gave an involuntary noise of suppressed desire.

Porthos crawled over his body, drawing the tip of his erection up Athos' thigh and hip, rubbing it against Athos' own cock, already hard again.

"Do you want this?" Porthos repeated, covering Athos' body with his own, and feeling Athos' arms close around him. 

Athos buried his face in Porthos' neck and surrendered, not to Porthos, but to his own long-repressed desires.

"Yes," he breathed. "Yes, God, yes. Take me. Please. I'm yours."

In the shifting candlelight Porthos fucked him, his lithe, powerful frame driving into Athos' willing body, thrusting between his legs with a forceful need. Athos, spread face down in the pillows, let Porthos take everything he wanted, rocking with his strokes, aching from the hardness driving inside him, until he felt Porthos shudder violently in orgasm, a flood of hot seed spurting deep in his body. It was enough to make Athos come for a second time that night, his own shameful release soaking into the sheet below.

He lay there, spent and trembling with shame and reaction, expecting Porthos to get up and leave, having got what he wanted. To his surprise, Porthos turned him carefully and settled Athos in his arms, kissing him tenderly.

"Are you alright?"

Athos blinked owlishly at him, and Porthos laughed. "Well at least you're not crying this time." Athos managed a smile, and Porthos smiled back at him. "That's better!" 

They lay there in the warm nest of blankets, and gradually Athos came back to himself, gathering the shreds of his dignity and self-possession around him, and finding, to his surprise, that he in no way wanted to move from Porthos' arms.

He looked up at him, and Porthos kissed him firmly. "No."

"No what?" Athos frowned at him.

"No you can’t run away."

"I wasn’t going to," Athos told him, and it was Porthos' turn to look surprised. "Besides, this is my bed."

"True enough." Porthos hugged him close. "Does this mean I'm not being evicted?"

"I suppose you can stay," Athos murmured sleepily. "If you promise to behave."

Porthos laughed delightedly. "Are you really alright?" he asked quietly, after a moment.

Athos nodded against his chest, and Porthos kissed his hair. 

"Can I ask an impertinent question?" Porthos said after a while. Athos gave a huff of laughter. 

"Is it any use my saying no?"

Porthos conceded the point with a grin. "You and Aramis. What's the deal with that? I don’t want to tread on any toes."

Athos shifted a little. "That was over a long time ago. We were young. It was - experimental, more than romantic. We were really only ever friends."

"Has there been no-one since?"

Athos fidgeted. "Once."

"What happened to him?"

Athos sighed. "When I say once, I mean that literally." Porthos looked enquiring and Athos frowned uncomfortably. "He was a visiting lecturer. Name of Rochefort. He seemed - interested. It had been a long time, and I - let him have his way with me." Athos looked away. "I rather wish I hadn't," he said softly.

"He hurt you?" Porthos demanded indignantly.

"He - wasn't kind," Athos admitted.

"I hope you gave him what for?"

Athos shook his head tightly. "I thought I deserved it," he whispered. "For wanting something so wrong."

"Athos," Porthos sighed, in a pained whisper. 

Athos looked up at him, and Porthos cupped his face, kissing him softly. "I'm sorry," said Porthos sincerely.

"What for?" Athos asked, surprised.

"For any moment where I have not been kind," Porthos told him solemnly. "If I'd known - I would have been gentler," he added rather sadly.

Athos kissed him then, sudden and unexpected and fierce. 

"I don't need gentle," he breathed. Porthos wrapped his arms about Athos' chest and they fell back into the pillows, kissing desperately hard.

-(tbc)-


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for supernaturally influenced suicidal thoughts/situation in this chapter.

When Athos opened his eyes the next morning, he was rather taken aback to discover his head was resting on a man's broad chest in lieu of a pillow.

He made to sit up, but an arm around his shoulders encouraged him firmly back into his previous position. He submitted, in so far as he stayed where he was, but he turned in place to look up at Porthos a little warily.

"Morning," Porthos smiled. He'd been awake for a while, and had been watching Athos sleep with both a fondness and a slight apprehension as to what his reaction would be when he woke up.

To his relief, after a second Athos smiled back, although he looked flustered at finding himself in such a compromising position. 

"Good morning," Athos murmured, and jumped a little as Porthos started stroking his hair. To Porthos' satisfaction, after a short internal battle Athos laid back down with his head on Porthos' chest again, allowing the quiet petting to continue.

Both found it peaceful and comforting after the emotional turmoil of the night before, and it was consequently some time before they finally climbed out of bed, drawn by the call of nature and lure of breakfast. 

Opening the door, Porthos frowned as a shaft of light from the window caught a set of marks on the bottom of the door he'd never noticed before.

"Were they always there?"

Athos came over and bent to examine them. "I don't think so. Although it is quite dark out here on the stairs." He crouched lower, setting his fingers against the fresh looking gouges in the wood. 

"It looks almost like claw marks," Porthos observed.

"Do you know, I thought I heard scratching the other night," Athos said, frowning. "Is it rats, do you think? Too large for mice, surely?"

"Bloody big rats for that matter," said Porthos, making a face. "Aramis doesn't have a cat does he?"

"Not that I know of. I've not seen one about, anyway."

Shrugging, they went down to breakfast, and were relieved to find they weren't the latest to emerge that morning. 

With the hall being newly decorated and festive looking, Aramis had set their places at the large dining table, and immediately pressed Porthos into service to help him bring the rest of the food out. Athos settled at the table, and after a minute or so d'Artagnan finally appeared, moving rather carefully. He sat down opposite Athos, wincing as he did so.

"You alright?" Athos asked solicitously, pouring him coffee from the silver pot.

"Just a bit sore," said d'Artagnan without thinking, and then froze. He risked a look up, face flaming.

Athos cleared his throat and glanced away, although d’Artagnan was relieved to note he seemed amused rather than angry at the obvious implications.

"A warm bath would help with that," Athos muttered after a second, eyes firmly fixed on the piece of toast he was buttering. While he might disapprove of Aramis' actions in the matter, he bore d'Artagnan no ill will for following his heart, nor was so hypocritical that he would seek to excuse his own behaviour while condemning theirs.

"You think so?" 

"Mmmn. Maybe a drop or two of bath oil in the water." Athos looked up with a fleeting smile. "In fact, you'd probably do well to hang onto the oil."

D'Artagnan promptly choked on his coffee.

They were joined by Aramis and Porthos at this point, bearing plates of eggs and more toast, and conversation turned to safer topics.

When they'd eaten, Athos helped Aramis clear away and wash up. Porthos followed them into the kitchen after a while and settled in a chair with the last of the coffee, having been assured that there was nothing more constructive he was expected to be doing.

"Where's d'Artagnan got to?" Aramis asked after a while. He knew d'Artagnan had been in some discomfort and was feeling faintly guilty about it, although d'Artagnan's ardent kisses upon waking had assured him he felt no regrets.

"I think he was going to have a bath," said Athos offhandedly.

Aramis went pale. "In the bathroom?"

"Well I assume so, unless he preferred to go and roll around in the snow," Athos retorted, then frowned at Aramis' look of alarm. "What's wrong?"

"Have you forgotten that I was attacked in there last night?"

Athos' frown deepened. "I thought we'd established you'd fallen asleep in the bath and had a nightmare?"

"No, you accused me of imagining things, which isn't the same at all," Aramis snapped, and ran out of the room.

Athos and Porthos exchanged a look of startled surprise and followed him.

"D'Artagnan? D'Artagnan!" Aramis knocked loudly on the bathroom door, then when there was no reply pushed it open quickly, d'Artagnan having broken the lock the previous day.

Athos and Porthos piled in behind him, and the three stared in horror to find d'Artagnan lying beneath the surface, hair fanned around his face, and eyes wide and unblinking.

They hauled him frantically out of the water and laid him on the floor, where Athos and Porthos could only look on helplessly at Aramis' increasingly urgent efforts to revive him.

Abruptly d'Artagnan twitched and choked, curling over and coughing up water onto the tiles. Aramis sagged to the floor beside him, weak with relief.

Struggling to sit up, d'Artagnan was at first confused and distressed to find himself sprawled naked on the bathroom floor in front of everyone, and then he remembered what had happened and clung to Aramis in sudden alarm.

"It's okay. Shh, it's okay. You're safe now." Aramis hugged d'Artagnan's wet and shaking body to him tightly, as Porthos tucked a warm towel around him.

"What happened?" Aramis prompted when d'Artagnan had stopped shivering convulsively.

"Something grabbed me," he said with a raw sounding throat. "Pulled me under. I couldn't see it, but - " he shuddered. "I thought I was going to die." 

Aramis hugged him close, staring up at Athos with a grim expression.

"I'm sorry we didn't believe you," Athos said quietly. "It just seemed so - fantastic."

"What the hell's going on here?" Porthos demanded, not expecting an answer.

"I don't know," Aramis sighed. "But I'd suggest no-one uses this bathroom again. At least not alone," he added, and d'Artagnan gave a muffled laugh against his shoulder.

\--

"So." Aramis threw Athos a speculative glance. "You and Porthos, huh?"

It was half an hour later. D'Artagnan had been put to bed, and Porthos had volunteered to go and empty the bath on the grounds whatever it was seemed to be coming from the water, and then nail up the door, just in case.

Aramis and Athos were in the parlour, trying to come up with a rational explanation for what had happened and failing miserably. Aramis had been too preoccupied to notice at the time, but thinking back to the scene in the bathroom it had just occurred to him that Porthos had definitely had his arm around Athos at one point. Knowing Athos' disinclination to tolerate casual affection of any sort, this seemed highly suggestive.

Athos stared out at the snow instead of meeting his gaze, but sensed it was futile to deny it. "Yes."

"Good for you." Aramis joined him at the window, and nudged him with his shoulder. "About time you had some fun."

Athos sighed. "And where can it go? It's all very well while we're all snowed in like this, and like-minded degenerates the lot of us. But out there? What happens when we leave?" 

"You mean because he's just a clerk, and you're a professor?" Aramis teased.

"Well, setting aside the risk of imprisonment and disgrace, I was thinking more about the fact we don't even live in the same city," Athos retorted gloomily. "But since you mention it. However much we might like each other, would I even fit into his world? Would he fit into mine? It would be a disaster from start to finish."

There was a noise behind them and both men turned, Athos finding with an appalled sense of horror that Porthos was standing in the doorway. For a second they stared at each other, then Porthos tuned and fled.

"Oh God." Athos leaned against the windowsill for support. "Did he hear me? How long was he standing there?"

"Well go after him then!" Aramis urged, giving Athos a shove to get him moving.

Athos stumbled out of the room in time to see Porthos disappearing across the hall into the staircase leading up to their bedrooms. He hurried down the steps from the parlour in pursuit.

\--

At overhearing Athos' summation of their prospects, Porthos had felt hurt and humiliated and his overriding instinct was to flee. Climbing the stairs he hesitated at the open door to Athos' bedroom but it wasn't his room to hide in and he kept going. He was almost at the top when he heard Athos enter the staircase below him, calling his name. 

Running up the final few steps Porthos was ready to hurl himself into his own room and slam the door, but reaching the top he was surprised to find a door that he'd never noticed before standing open, with further steps going up beyond.

They were lower and narrower than the main flight, and ducking his head he walked up them more slowly, not hearing the door click quietly shut again behind him. 

Reaching the top he emerged into an attic room, with open rafters and a boarded floor. There were various dusty trunks and boxes stacked about the space, a small window in the gable end - and something that drew Porthos' attention like a cold hand around his throat.

Thrown over one of the rafters and tied into place, was a noose. 

It swung slightly as he walked towards it, gripped with a dreadful fascination. Had someone died here? No-one had suggested to him that Aramis' uncle had died of anything other than natural causes. 

There was a crate on the floor beneath it, as if ready for someone to step up and put their head through the loop. It felt suddenly like it was waiting for him and Porthos swayed, as an overwhelming sense of despair swept through him. 

For what seemed now like a fleeting moment that morning he'd been happy; he'd thought he and Athos might have something that they could build on together, that he might have prospects brighter than spending the rest of his life at a cramped desk for a pittance in reward.

Now though, he saw it was all built on nothing. He was a criminal, a man who'd attempted theft and fraud. He'd all but assaulted Athos the night before, and he had the temerity to think they might have had a life together? Athos could surely only despise him. How had he ever thought he could fit in, with these people and their grand houses?

Porthos took a step forward, and another. Somehow now he was standing on the crate, and didn't remember climbing up onto it.

The rope was rough in his hand, and he was blinking back tears. It was the best thing. For everyone.

\--

Athos stuck his head into his bedroom as he went past, ascertained it was empty and ran panting up the final flight. "Porthos." he knocked on the door to his room. "Porthos, please, I'm sorry."

There was no answer and he tried the handle. To his surprise it turned easily, but that was nothing as to his surprise at finding the room beyond empty.

"Porthos?" Athos frowned. He'd seen him come up here, he was certain he had. Was he hiding? Feeling faintly ridiculous, Athos ducked to look under the bed, but it was empty. He walked back out onto the stairs, wondering if Porthos had perhaps been in his own room after all, maybe hiding behind the door. 

There was nowhere else he could have gone. But people didn’t just vanish into thin air. Athos leaned against the panelling, getting his breath back from the hurried climb and feeling baffled.

Gradually he became aware that there was a draught issuing from somewhere, and turned his head, trying to locate it. It seemed to be coming from a crack between the panels, and he ran his hand along it. Now Athos knew what to look for he could make out the outline of a door, and ran his fingers along the line of it, pushing experimentally.

Eventually he was rewarded with a click, and the hidden door swung open towards him. Athos dashed up the stairs beyond, and froze in alarm at the sight that met his eyes.

In the middle of the room, Porthos was standing balanced precariously on a crate, holding a noose up as if about to slip it over his head.

"Porthos! What the hell?" Athos yelled, and Porthos jumped, staring at him in surprise as if coming out of a trance and not knowing where he was or what he was doing. Just then the crate crumbled beneath his feet and Porthos dropped with a yell, while it felt horribly like the rope squirmed in his hand, trying to get a purchase around his neck. But Porthos thrust it away from him with instinctive revulsion and Athos dashed forwards to catch him before he crashed to the ground.

Sprawled on the floor they clung to each other in alarm and horror, and Porthos' black despair of a moment earlier dissipated like mist as Athos held him tightly.

"My God, what were you thinking?" Athos breathed, shocked beyond belief that his words might have driven Porthos to such inconceivable ends.

"I don't really know," Porthos muttered. "Suddenly it just felt - like there was no hope, no point in carrying on. All there was, was despair. That - thing, wanted me. And it was the only thing that did."

Athos hugged him protectively. "I'm so sorry," he said quietly. "You were never meant to hear what I said, I was only thinking aloud. We'll make this work, we'll figure something out, I promise."

"Do you mean that?" Porthos asked him wonderingly, and Athos nodded. 

"Yes. I do. I'm not such a fool as all that, to throw away a chance like this."

They stared at each other in tentative hope, and then came together in a gentle kiss, just a press of lips, but enough to seal their words.

"It's strange," Athos mused. "You talking about despair. Last night - at first - I'd never felt so low in all my life. I'd hate you to think I make a habit of bursting into tears," he added with a rueful smile. "In a way I was giving up as much as you were just now. I'd have let you do anything to me, and I didn't care about the consequences."

He raised a hand to Porthos' cheek, stroking a thumb across the skin. Porthos looked stricken at his words, and Athos shook his head before he could interrupt.

"All I expected was to be used and discarded," Athos whispered. "But - " He faltered, and Porthos took his hand firmly, making him smile. "But you offered me so much more. Pleasure. Comfort."

"Love," Porthos added softly, and when Athos looked up he kissed him. 

They sat there a while longer, neither feeling strong enough to move yet.

"Why the hell's Aramis got a noose in his damn attic anyway?" Porthos grumbled, leaning back in Athos' arms.

"I doubt he knows it's here," said Athos.

"Bit hard to miss, don't you think?"

"No, I meant the whole room. The door was very well hidden." Athos frowned. "How did you find it?"

"Door was standing open when I came up the stairs," Porthos said, looking surprised. 

"It was tight shut when I followed you up," said Athos. "Did you close it?"

Porthos shook his head. He'd been so surprised at finding the hidden stair he'd forgotten for a second he was running away from Athos.

"Like something didn't want you to find me," said Porthos grimly, looking up at the swinging noose with a shudder. He started to add something, then broke off with a cry of surprise. Outside, the sun had broken through the snow clouds, and in the sudden shaft of sunlight the noose had vanished.

"Tell me you saw that?" Porthos said rather shakily, and to his relief Athos nodded.

"What the hell is going on in this place?" Athos said in a low urgent voice. "First something tries to drown Aramis and d'Artagnan and now this."

"Well," said Porthos. "At least we know it can be overcome. By sunlight, for one." He smiled, and kissed Athos on the mouth. "Or love. Thank you. For coming after me."

Athos blushed and stood up looking awkward, but to Porthos' satisfaction didn't contradict him.

As they made their way back down the stairs Athos showed Porthos the way the door blended in so tightly with the panelling, and the trick to opening it again.

"If it hadn't been for the draught I would never have found you in time," said Athos with a shudder.

"What draught?"

"Coming through the gap." Athos held his hand up to the crack. "That's odd. It's stopped. I definitely felt a chill coming through here."

"There were no windows open." Porthos couldn't prevent a shiver, and was thankful when they descended to the hall. As soon as they stepped out of the stairwell a half-sensed prickling sensation lifted, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Call me crazy, but I always feel like I'm being watched on that staircase," Porthos said.

As they passed the portrait of Aramis' uncle, Athos looked up at it and thought back to the mysterious draught. "Maybe someone wanted me to find you after all," he murmured.

\--

They found d'Artagnan had joined Aramis in the parlour and was sitting wrapped in a blanket on the settee. He'd woken from a disturbed sleep and been too uneasy to remain alone so had sought out Aramis, who was lighting the fire.

As they came in, d'Artagnan and Aramis took one look at them and knew something had happened.

"Now what?" Aramis said heavily.

They explained about the noose, and by the time they'd finished everyone looked severely shaken.

"I don't think anyone should sleep alone tonight," Athos said, mindful of the way he and Porthos both seemed to have been susceptible to emotionally compromising influences. 

"I don't think anyone was planning on it," Aramis said, and laughed at the various degrees of scandalised embarrassment around him. "Oh, come now. What's the point in being coy about it, between these four walls at least. We're all doing the same thing, after all." He was by now sitting next to d'Artagnan on the couch, and deliberately wrapped an arm around his shoulders. 

After a second's hesitation, d'Artagnan leaned in to him, grateful for the contact and comfort after his ordeal.

Porthos looked sideways at Athos, who was staring awkwardly away from any of them, holding himself stiffly and aloof. Porthos reached over and laid a hand gently over Athos' where it rested on the arm of his chair.

Athos looked round at him in surprise. Porthos was resigned to Athos pulling his hand away, but he didn't. Porthos offered him a tentative, hopeful smile, and after a second Athos untensed and actually threaded their fingers together. Porthos squeezed his hand and smiled warmly at him. Athos blushed, but still didn't pull away.

They made a pot of tea, and watched the weather worsening outside the window, everyone taking unspoken comfort in the quiet company of the others. Aramis banked up the fire, then frowned. "We're going to need some more logs."

"You couldn't have mentioned that _before_ it started snowing again?" Porthos grinned. 

"There's plenty already split in the woodshed," Aramis told him, burrowing his feet back under the edge of d'Artagnan's blanket and hoping nobody would require him to be the one to fetch them.

"I'll go," Athos offered, getting to his feet and working the kinks out of his shoulders. He picked up the log basket and went out, hurrying down the staircase into the hall. It was cold outside the parlour and he shivered as he pulled his boots on. The snow was banked up against the back door and he had to lean all his weight against it to shove it open.

The woodshed was fortunately no great distance away and he hurried across the cobbled yard with his head down against the snow. The door had a heavy wooden latch on the outside and it took both hands to unhitch it.

The inside of the shed was dark, and smelt sweetly of applewood and oak logs. Athos set the basket on the ground and started filling it quickly, wishing he'd thought to bring gloves as his fingers were soon covered in moss and powdered bark. 

A new smell wafted up from somewhere and he wrinkled his nose. It wasn't nearly so pleasant as the fresh-cut wood, it was foetid and animal, and made him want to cough. Must be something dead in here he thought, hoping he didn't put his hand on a decomposing rat in the dark.

As soon as he'd had the thought, something scurried behind him and he jumped. Not just dead ones in here, obviously. 

Judging the basket to be as full as he could comfortably manage to haul back up the stairs without being too light that the others would be likely to mock him for it, Athos was about to pick it up when the wind got up and a sudden violent gust slammed the door shut.

Plunged into almost total darkness, Athos sighed irritably and edged his way unsteadily across to the door. Feeling around the frame and where according to any earthly logic of architecture the handle should be, he finally came to the inescapable conclusion that once shut, there was no way to lift the latch from the inside.

"Oh, for - " he bit off the expletive and thumped the door frustratedly. There was no way anyone was going to hear him yelling from here, which meant he'd have to wait until someone came looking. It was unlikely to be long enough for him to freeze to death, but it could be a long cold wait, and he wished he'd stopped to put his coat on.

Fighting down the instinctive urge to panic at being shut in a cramped dark space in below-freezing temperatures, he forced himself to feel around the walls for something he could use. If there was anything thin like a saw or a shovel blade that he could work through the gap in the door, he might be able to use it to lever the latch up - or even just break his way out.

His movements prompted another flurry of scampering feet, and Athos shuddered. Ordinarily he wasn't too bothered about rats, but being shut in with them wasn't a nice feeling and in the dark they seemed to be getting bolder.

Something ran over his foot and this time he did swear. 

"Hey. Hey!" He gave in to the urge and banged on the door, shouting loudly for help. As he suspected no-one came running, and he felt a little ashamed of himself. It wasn't as if he was in any danger, and one of them would come down and let him out eventually. Except it might not be until the last logs burned down, and that could be an hour or more away.

Athos looked around, his eyes adjusting to the gloom slightly. There were dim chinks of light between the planks of the walls and around the door, and he could make out the vague shapes of the log piles.

Something glinted in the darkest corner, tiny points of reflected light. Wondering if it was a metal tool he could use, Athos leaned forward then jerked back in sudden horror as they moved and he realised what it was. 

Eyes. Eyes in the dark, looking at him. 

He swung round and somehow everywhere he looked there were more of them. Tiny, gleaming rat eyes, staring accusingly from the log piles at this invasion of their home.

Athos tried to breathe slowly and calmly, arguing there was no reason for them to attack him if he offered no threat, but the smell he'd noticed earlier was suddenly stronger, thick on his tongue, and he choked.

The noise caused a stirring in the mass of rats, and he felt another one run over his foot. He kicked out instinctively and stumbled backwards, knocking into the wall. Something landed on his head, dislodged from a rafter above, claws tangling in his hair and scratching at his cheek. 

In a fit of revulsion Athos batted it away and it disappeared into what now seemed to be a seething mass of rats, far too many for the small space, more than should naturally have been living here.

"Go away. Leave me alone." Athos made shooing motions, but the rats were bolder now, and getting closer. They were between him and the door, he realised, had been herding him slowly away from it. Surely that couldn't be deliberate? 

He screwed up his courage and tried to step across them. One ran up his leg and he shook it off but now there were two more, sharp claws pricking his leg through his trousers as they climbed him.

Athos hit out instinctively and his hand met warm, squirming fur. Teeth like needles sank into his fingers and he yelled in shock as much as pain, kicking out and trying to brush off the increasing weight of creatures now clinging to him.

They were all over him, on his shoulders, in his hair, hanging off his arms. Whip-like tails lashed across his face and he fought down the urge to cry out again, clamping his mouth shut in the sudden horror that any of those wriggling tails should work their way inside it.

They were biting him in earnest now, hideous wet jaws clamped onto every inch of exposed skin they could find, tearing through his clothing, clambering over each other to get to him, in a wave of rippling fur and scaly tails.

Athos fell to his knees, knowing it made him more vulnerable but trying in vain to protect his face, his throat, his eyes. They were pouring all over him now and he could feel blood dripping off his skin, sending the rats into a new frenzy. He couldn't think any more, couldn't move under the weight of them, and knew with a deadened sense of horror that it was only a matter of time before they chewed out his throat.

Dimly, as if from miles away, he thought he heard a voice call out his name but he couldn't answer, was too far gone with terror.

Outside, Porthos looked around the yard in surprise. He'd become impatient waiting for Athos to return and come in search of him, but the woodshed was barred from the outside and there was no sign.

"Athos?" Porthos rattled the door experimentally but it was shut fast. Surely Athos couldn't be inside?

Porthos was about to turn away when he thought he heard something, a thin cry of pain and despair that made him shiver to his core. He swung back and stared at the door to the shed. Had it come from in there?

Making his mind up he lifted the latch and hauled the door open. The sight that met his eyes made him freeze in disbelief, but even as he looked the scene seemed to shift and melt before his eyes. 

His first impression had been of Athos crouching in a ball on the ground, covered in twisting, chittering rats. Then as the pale winter sunlight poured through the door from a break in the clouds the rats became instead a dark amorphous cloud, that then faded away completely.

What was undeniable was that Athos was still crumpled in a heap on the ground, and Porthos rushed forward. He'd thought at first Athos was unconscious but he flinched at Porthos' touch.

"Hey. It's alright. Athos, you're alright, you're safe." He soothed him with gentle hands, and Athos finally raised a pale, terrified face to him. His hands were shaking, spread protectively against his neck, and it was a good few minutes before he could speak.

Porthos sat on the ground and held him. Gradually Athos uncurled from his defensive ball and stared wonderingly at his hands.

"What is it?" Porthos murmured, taking Athos' cold hands in his and chafing them softly.

Athos looked up at him then and swallowed a few times before he could speak. "Did - did you see - ?" 

Porthos frowned. "I don't know what I saw. For a second it looked like rats, hundreds of them, then - then they were gone. Is that what you saw?"

Athos nodded, starting to shiver. "They were all over me," he said, voice tight with horror. "They were biting me, my hands, my - my face."

Porthos stroked Athos' hair back and examined him closely. He shook his head. "Not a mark on you," he said gently. Athos fell against him then and Porthos held him tightly while he shook bodily with reaction.

It was only when Athos felt strong enough to stand and Porthos helped him to his feet, that they realised Athos' shirt had been shredded as if by hundreds of tiny claws.

-(tbc)-


	5. Chapter 5

"What have you two been up to, or shouldn't I ask?" Aramis said with a smirk when Athos and Porthos finally reappeared, hauling the basket of logs between them. His grin faded as Athos sank down thankfully into a chair and he took in his pale face and the state of his clothes. "Did you boys go for a roll in the hay, or a round in the ring?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Athos muttered, rubbing at his hands and trying to brush off the lingering traces of the woodshed.

Aramis and d'Artagnan exchanged a look.

"You're talking to two people who were nearly drowned in a bathtub by an invisible squid," Aramis pointed out. "I suspect we might."

Porthos banked up the fire and then sat on the arm of Athos' chair, putting an arm round his shoulders reassuringly. "Tell them," he said. "I mean - I saw it too." He frowned. "Sort of."

Athos sighed, and related the events as best he could. He shuddered to recollect the feeling of the tiny claws on him, of the teeth meeting in his skin, but Porthos' touch was warm and real and unwavering, and he drew strength from it.

"That's horrible," d'Artagnan said when he'd finished, drawing his knees up protectively and wriggling closer to Aramis.

"I'd have said we were all hallucinating somehow," said Athos, "but this rather suggests otherwise." He plucked at the ragged tears in his shirt. 

"But they weren't real, right?" d'Artagnan said rather pleadingly. 

"Oh, ghost rats are somehow better?" Porthos retorted. "This place is infested. First snakes, now rats."

"Snakes?" Aramis exclaimed in surprise.

Porthos shrugged. "At the time I thought I'd imagined it," he said, exchanging a look with Athos.

"And I thought it was just an excuse not to sleep alone," Athos admitted.

"Cheek." Porthos squeezed his hand and smiled at him. "There was a snake in my bed," he told Aramis. "At least - I thought there was. A couple of nights ago."

Athos was frowning. "Snakes, rats, sea-serpents. What does that all remind you of?"

They all stared at him. "What are you saying, they're coming out of that book?" said d'Artagnan finally, sounding simultaneously scornful and horrified. "How is that even possible?"

"How is any of this possible?" Athos snapped back. He stood up, arms wrapped around himself defensively. "Look, I'm not saying anything, it's just - this all seems to have started since we found the bloody thing. Aramis, you were here on your own for a while before we arrived, did you notice anything untoward?"

Aramis shook his head. "I even used that bath a couple of times. Nothing." He shuddered, and then looked at d'Artagnan. "Remember the lake?"

"What about it?" Porthos asked.

"We thought something had crawled out of it," d’Artagnan said darkly. "Maybe that was what came up out of the bath."

Athos was visibly shivering, despite standing in front of the fire. "We should leave. All of us. Now. Before it's too late."

"And how do you suggest we do that?" Aramis demanded. "Look at it out there. We wouldn't get half a mile in snow that deep. And it'll be dark soon."

"That's what worries me," Athos muttered. 

Porthos got to his feet and wrapped his arms around Athos from behind. "We'll be okay," he said, more confidently than he felt. "We just all have to stick together."

"Porthos is right," said Aramis. "And I mean literally, I don't think anyone should be alone for any length of time until we figure out what's going on here and how to stop it."

"I'm with Athos, I think we should leave," d'Artagnan said. "If not now, then at first light. We'll make it to the village somehow, it's not that far."

"And then what?" asked Aramis. "We just abandon the place? What happens to the next person that comes along?"

Athos sighed. "Much as I hate to say it, Aramis is right. We can't just run away. I'm not sure that would even help, who knows if all this would just follow us?"

"I thought you said it was the book?" d'Artagnan persisted. "Surely if we left it behind we'd be fine. Or - look, can't we stick it back in the hole or something? Seal it back up?"

Athos looked dubious. "I suppose it's worth a try." 

"Come on then," d'Artagnan urged, and throwing back his blanket he marched out of the room.

The rest of them looked at each other.

"Did I mention he was impetuous?" Athos sighed. 

Aramis clapped him on the back. "Maybe that's just what we need."

\--

They followed d'Artagnan down to the library, where he was hesitating over the book, clearly unwilling to touch it.

"It's just a book." Athos opened the cover and everyone flinched.

"Warn us, would you!" Porthos grumbled, and Athos' lips hitched in a half smile.

"If it is the book at fault, I'd say the damage has already been done." He paged through it slowly, unable to suppress a shiver of revulsion at the image of the rats.

"Oh, fuck." D'Artagnan blushed as everyone turned to look at him with varying degrees of amusement and irritation.

"D'Artagnan, really," Athos muttered. 

"Sorry. It's just - the owls." He pointed at the page open on the table.

"What about them?"

D'Artagnan looked at Aramis. "I had one in my room the other night."

"Well, if you will insist on sleeping with the window open," Aramis teased. D'Artagnan looked at him soberly.

"I didn't. It was closed when I went to bed, I'd swear to it."

"You didn't mention that at the time," said Aramis, looking startled.

"I was embarrassed enough already," d'Artagnan muttered. "You'd have thought I was crazy."

"Never," promised Aramis, patting d'Artagnan's shoulder. "Actually I thought it was rather a hoot."

Everyone groaned, and he smirked. "Come on, what are we going to do about this? Put it back in the hole?"

"Everything's always sex with you, isn't it?" Athos murmured, and felt a certain quiet satisfaction at the appalled laughter that ensued.

His amusement faded though as he turned to the final leaf with its accusingly vacant border. "Diabolus ad ianuam," Athos read, tracing the Latin text with his finger. "Devil's - door? Gate?"

"Did the missing page ever turn up?" Aramis asked curiously.

Athos glanced at Porthos, and they shared a look of grim consensus.

"I don't think it ever was," said Athos quietly. "I think the only thing missing is the imp itself."

"What are you talking about?" demanded d'Artagnan uncomfortably. 

"It was here." Athos tapped the empty page. "I'm sure of it. There _were_ no blank pages when we first looked."

"Well where's it gone?" D'Artagnan looked over his shoulder nervously as if it might be behind him. Porthos made a scrabbling motion on his back and d'Artagnan jumped violently, punching him on the arm. "Don't!"

"None of the other creatures have moved," Aramis pointed out. "And they're the ones we've been - experiencing."

"Maybe - oh, I don't know," Athos sighed. "It all seems so outlandish."

"Go on," pressed Aramis. "What were you going to say?" 

"Maybe it's the imp that's making it all happen. Using the illustrations as - what, inspiration? Fuel? There's no image of a noose, or anything like that in here. What if it's taking ideas from our heads? Using them against us?"

"You mean if we'd not looked at the pictures, we'd not have been attacked by the things inside?" d’Artagnan asked.

"I think perhaps it would have used other things against us," said Athos. He gave a faint smile. "Maybe you'd have been haunted by the ghost of a fail mark."

"You think this is funny?"

"No." Athos sighed. "No, believe me, I don't." 

Porthos laid a hand on his shoulder, and he patted it gratefully, looking up at Aramis. "Maybe by opening the book - or just unsealing it, I don't know - maybe we let something out. Something your uncle had bound, down there."

"But hang on." Porthos frowned at him. "I mean - my father managed to open it without any problems, didn't he?" 

"Did he?" Athos said gently. "What happened to him?"

"Well, I - I don't - " Porthos wrapped his arms around himself, looking stricken. "What are you saying?"

"You said it yourself, you had nightmares. That you kept seeing snakes. What if they weren't nightmares?" Athos stood up and faced him, apologetic but determined. "He disappeared Porthos, and your mother died. What if those events weren't unconnected? What if Francois managed to bind it again, but not until it was too late?"

Porthos looked near to tears, and Aramis slapped Athos hard on the arm. "Stop it. You're upsetting him and this isn't serving any purpose."

"I'm sorry," Athos told Porthos, with a contrite smile. "But you're wrong Aramis, I do have a point. What I'm saying is, it suggests this thing can be stopped. All we need to do is figure out how."

"Oh, is that all," said d'Artagnan gloomily, after a beat. "Well that should be a piece of cake. Do we know any vicars?"

"Aramis read theology," Athos said. "If that helps."

"I thought you were a doctor?" said d’Artagnan, looking at Aramis in surprise.

"Surgeon, please," said Aramis, with a smile. "And I am. I decided the Church wasn't for me after all."

"Did I mention he gets bored quickly?" Athos declared, and Aramis aimed a kick at him.

"Shut up and think of a way to solve this."

Athos shrugged. "Bell, book and candle? I believe that's the traditional requirement for an exorcism, but don't ask me what you're supposed to do with them."

"Well we can do the book part." Porthos went over to the far wall and pulled out a fat black family bible, blowing the dust off as he carried it back over. "Noticed it when we were searching before."

"Plenty of candles in the decorations we put up," said d'Artagnan.

"Shouldn't it be a church candle?" Aramis frowned. "I mean, blessed, and all that?"

"Beggars can't be choosers," declared Athos, leading them back into the great hall. "Come on. I don't know what we'll do for a bell though."

"Wooden spoon in a saucepan?" suggested d’Artagnan. "The farmers used to go wassailing on Christmas Eve when I was little. Banging round the orchards with pots and pans and shotguns, to drive out the evil spirits."

"Now that sounds a bit more like it," said Porthos with renewed enthusiasm, looking at the two shotguns mounted over the fireplace. "Can't we just shoot this thing?"

"We've got to find it first," Athos reminded him. "And the way it's been messing with our heads I wouldn't trust it not to end up making us shoot each other. I vote no guns."

"I'm not sure there's any cartridges anyway," said Aramis. "I suppose we could always just hit the thing with them."

It felt odd to be discussing such a nebulous threat so matter-of-factly, but the bravado made all them feel better. Athos collected a couple of the red candles from the table decorations and came over to see what Aramis was looking at.

He was peering at a framed etching hanging to the side of the fireplace, that proved to be a picture of the house.

"I've never really looked at this before," Aramis muttered. "That must be your attic room." He rested his finger on a tiny window above the one to Porthos' bedroom. Then he frowned, and moved his hand across to the eastern range, where a second tiny casement mirrored the first.

"Another room?" Athos asked.

"That must be above my bedroom," Aramis said with surprise. "But there's no door to it?"

"The other one was well hidden," Athos told him. "Set in the panelling, with a concealed catch."

"But you found nothing of interest inside? Apart from - well, the, er, the noose?" 

"Just empty luggage and a bad feeling," said Porthos darkly, coming up behind them. "If you're thinking of going up there, we should all go together."

Accordingly, they all trooped up the stairs past the door to the parlour and stopped on the landing leading to Aramis and d'Artagnan's bedrooms and the second small bathroom, which held only a lavatory and basin. 

With night falling rapidly it was by now quite dark and Athos lit one of the candles.

"Any ideas?" Aramis sighed, tapping vaguely at the panelling. 

"Not really." Athos handed the candle to d'Artagnan and joined him, running his fingers along the joints and corners. "Where it sounds hollow I guess?"

"Well how did you find the first one?" 

Athos looked embarrassed. "You'll think I'm barking."

"I already think you're barking. I once witnessed you drink two bottles of port and challenge the undergrad boxing champion to a fist fight."

"What happened?" d'Artagnan asked immediately.

"Athos threw up on the other guy's shoes before anyone could land a punch," Aramis grinned. "It was beautiful."

"You promised me we would never speak of that again," Athos complained, suffering d'Artagnan's delighted laughter with a sigh.

"I lied," Aramis grinned. "Anyway, go on, you were saying how you found the other door."

Athos hesitated, with a glance at Porthos. "There was a draught blowing from behind it. Even though there was nowhere it could have been coming _from_. This is going to sound silly, but - well, I wondered if maybe - it was your uncle. Helping. Pointing the way."

Aramis stared at him. "My uncle. My - dead - uncle?" he said flatly.

"I told you you'd think I was insane," Athos muttered, going back to his search. "It's just - if it hadn't been for that, I'd never have found my way in, in time to - in time." 

"Why would he help?" Porthos muttered. "Could just as easily have been him that closed the door behind me. If it is him that's been haunting that staircase I get the distinct impression he doesn't want me here."

"Well, given that he apparently hid the manuscript in the first place, he's probably just narked that you came after it," Athos said carelessly. "I mean, if you hadn't, none of this would be happening, would it?"

Porthos stared at him in mortification, but Athos was too busy examining the wood panelling to notice. Wordlessly, Porthos turned and went back down the steps, and finally Athos realised there was an awkward silence. 

He looked round to discover Aramis and d'Artagnan glaring at him.

"What?" 

"You might want to run that last sentence through your head again," said Aramis dryly.

Athos frowned, then looked horrified. "Oh. Oh no. I didn’t mean - "

Aramis held up a hand, forestalling him. "Not me you need to be telling."

Athos turned and dashed back down the stairs. 

Left alone on the landing, Aramis and d'Artagnan looked at each other and Aramis rolled his eyes. "Which part of 'let's not split up' did I not make clear?" he sighed. "Look, bring the candle over here to the wall, see if there's any breeze that affects the flame."

As d'Artagnan complied, Aramis looked upwards with a self-conscious laugh. "You know uncle, if you are here, now would be a good time to lend a hand."

The candle promptly blew out, plunging them into darkness and they both yelped in fright.

D'Artagnan hastily rekindled the flame and they stared at each other in a combination of alarm and embarrassment, each hoping the other would make no mention of their inadvertent moment of fear.

The candle was guttering in a definite draught, and d'Artagnan moved it back and forth across the wall until he found the joint that seemed most likely to be the edge of a door. He fumbled about on the panels, wishing he'd got Athos to describe the catch in more detail, then got lucky when he pressed down on a knot in the wood.

There was a muffled click, and part of the wall swung forward under his hand.

"Right. Well." They peered up the dark steps beyond, and looked at each other.

"Wait here, I'll get another lamp," said Aramis, and disappeared before d'Artagnan could protest.

"Great. Doesn't even take his own advice." D'Artagnan eyed the stairway uneasily, wishing Aramis or the others would come back. It wasn't that he minded being alone, so much as the sneaking suspicion he might _not_ be.

He swung round as the shadows seemed to dip and loom, but it was only Aramis, returning with the oil lamp from his bedroom.

Aramis must have seen something in his face, because he frowned in concern. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah," breathed d'Artagnan, then figured to hell with it. "Just - don't leave me alone again, okay?"

Aramis' face softened in understanding. "Sorry." He leaned in and brushed a kiss to his lips. "Shall I go first?" he offered.

D'Artagnan scowled, already regretting his moment of weakness. "No." He took a deep breath and moved forwards onto the steps, ducking under the cobwebs that hung down from the doorway.

\--

When Athos came out onto the steps leading down to the ground floor, Porthos was already at the bottom, making his way across the hall.

"Porthos. Porthos, wait!" When Porthos gave no indication he'd heard, Athos groaned. "Porthos, don't! None of us should go off alone right now, please!"

To his relief Porthos stopped, but he didn't come back, instead waited grudgingly for Athos to catch up. When he reached him, he saw Porthos' expression was one of guarded anger, badly masking obvious hurt.

"I'm sorry," Athos said immediately. "What I said - I didn’t mean it to sound like an accusation. I don’t want you to think I blame you, for any of this. I don't. None of us could have known."

Porthos' expression eased slightly, but he still looked deeply unhappy.

"It doesn’t matter, does it," he said slowly. "Whether you blame me or not. It's true. It's all my fault. If I hadn’t come here for the damn book, none of this would be happening."

"You don’t know that," Athos countered softly. "Who’s to say if you hadn't come d'Artagnan wouldn’t still have dropped the crystal? That Aramis wouldn't still have pulled up the floorboards? That I wouldn’t still have opened the book," he persisted. "The only thing that would have been different if you weren’t here, is there'd have been no-one to save me from the rats."

Porthos looked startled, and Athos came a little closer. "Actually, bugger the rats. If you hadn't come after the stupid book I'd never have met you, and that would be the worst thing of all."

Porthos looked at him, shaken. "Do you mean that?" he asked. "I wasn’t sure you even really liked me."

In answer Athos kissed him, softly and firmly, and for a while they clung together in the deepening shadows of the hall.

Eventually, reluctantly, Athos pulled away. "We should go back," he said. "If ever there were two people who shouldn’t be left unsupervised, it's probably those two."

Porthos laughed quietly and took his hand. "They're probably saying the same about us."

They went back up the stairs, and exchanged a tense look at finding the door to the attic steps standing open. Athos lit the second candle, and they cautiously made their way up.

Emerging into the room above, they were surprised to find it furnished much more comfortably that the first one, with a writing desk under the window, a worn but inviting looking armchair, and several bookshelves.

Aramis was seated at the desk with d'Artagnan leaning over his shoulder, and they both looked round with a sigh of relief when Athos and Porthos came up the stairs.

"I think this must have been my uncle's study," said Aramis, having satisfied himself that all seemed reasonably well between them. "I guess the room I'm using was his bedroom too, and this is right above it, so it makes sense."

"No nasty surprises?" asked Porthos, casting a wary look at the open beams above them.

"Not so far." Aramis tapped a stack of books on the desk. "We've found some of his diaries though."

"Anything on exorcisms or demon laying?" Athos asked dryly.

Aramis snorted. "Not so far. Mostly tedious daily life as a parish priest, and then even more tedium once he retired." 

"Go back further," Athos suggested. "Porthos, how old are you?" 

"Twenty eight, why?"

"And you said you were what, five? Go back twenty three years, if they run that far," Athos said to Aramis. "Maybe he mentions the damn thing."

Aramis muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'clutching at straws', but he got up and started searching the shelves for earlier volumes. 

Athos leaned over the desk and peered out of the window. It was full dark outside now with a three-quarters moon overhead, while below the snow lay all around the house, as perfect and unbroken as a frozen sea.

Somewhere an owl hooted, and d'Artagnan shivered. "Can't we go back down by the fire? I'm cold."

Athos nodded. "Soon. Don't worry, there's no reason we shouldn't be safe if we stay together. So far this thing's only been able to attack us when we were vulnerable."

"In daylight, yes."

They all turned to look at Porthos. 

"What do you mean?" Athos asked him.

Porthos shrugged uncomfortably. "Daylight - well, sunlight, specifically - it was what got rid of the noose, and the rats. I'm just saying - what if it's stronger at night?"

"Did you have to?" d'Artagnan complained. "I mean really? Like we weren't all nervous enough already?"

"Who's nervous?" Aramis said cheerfully, but his smile was brittle, and nobody answered him.

Into the quiet pause came a prolonged creaking noise from somewhere below, and they all looked at each other.

"What was that?" d'Artagnan whispered.

"Just the door," said Athos, shaking his head. "That's all. Must be a draught."

They found they were all listening for it to come again, but the creaking had stopped. Everyone was about to relax, when another noise echoed up the staircase.

A footstep.

"Was that - ?" d'Artagnan started, but was waved into silence by Aramis.

"Shh!"

Another footstep followed the first, and another. Heavy and slow, but getting inexorably closer. 

Eyes fixed on the top of the stairs, Athos reached out and picked up a letter opener from the desk. He wasn't entirely sure what he was going to do with it against whatever might be coming, but even just a few inches of sharp steel in his hand made him feel a little better.

Porthos picked up the lamp and held it high, staring tensely at the stairs. 

The footsteps kept coming with deliberate, agonising slowness, one tread at a time.

D'Artagnan felt his hands clenching into involuntary fists, and Aramis was clutching the crucifix around his neck hard enough to make his fingers hurt.

Another step, and another. Whoever - whatever - it was must be nearly at the top.

A creak of the banister, a last heavy tread - and then silence.

Porthos was the first to move, striding deliberately across with the lamp to look down the steps. 

"Alright, out with you," he demanded, then broke off, staring dumbly down an empty staircase.

"Porthos?" Aramis called.

"There's nothing here."

They all crowded round him then, not doubting him, but needing to see for themselves.

"It's toying with us," said Athos in disgust. "Getting under our skin." He looked up and around, addressing any unseen listeners. "Smoke and mirrors!" he spat. "You think a few spooky noises will be enough to unhinge us?"

A massive bang and a fluttering against the glass made everybody jump and spin round to look at the window. The perfect ghostly imprint of an owl was emblazoned across the panes.

Aramis slapped Athos round the back of the head. "Could you maybe not provoke the creepy forces of evil?" he suggested. "Just an idea."

"Yes. Sorry." Athos rubbed his head and gave a rueful smile, and Porthos nudged him with his shoulder and briefly pressed a hand to the small of his back as he passed.

Having located a shelf with likely looking journals of vaguely corresponding date - Porthos being unsure of the exact month or even year that he'd first seen the book - they gathered up as many as they could carry and descended with relief to the parlour, where they built up the fire and closed the curtains firmly against the night.

With Aramis and Porthos starting to leaf through the journals, Athos and d'Artagnan volunteered to go down to the kitchen and make them all some supper. 

Loading a couple of trays with bread and cheese and cold ham, they added two bottles of wine and a pot of tea, plus good-sized slices of gingerbread, being heartily grateful that Aramis' woman from the village had seen fit to well stock the larder before the snows set in.

When they went back upstairs, Athos noticed d'Artagnan had kept hold of the bread knife. He said nothing, conscious that the letter opener was still stuck through the loop of his own belt. They were all on edge, waiting for something to happen without knowing what, and it was reaching the point where Athos would almost have welcomed some crisis, if only because it would break this awful tension. 

They were welcomed back with a relief that was only partly down to the arrival of food. 

"You were ages," Porthos murmured, reaching out to squeeze Athos' hand as he settled next to him. 

"Had to wait for the tea kettle to boil," Athos smiled. "Did you think we'd been eaten by the scullery monster?"

"Not funny," Porthos grumbled, and leaned across to kiss him.

"Listen to this," Aramis interrupted, waving a dog-eared journal in one hand and a piece of bread and cheese in the other. "It's from the year before the one we were first looking at though, Porthos are you sure you were five?"

Porthos shrugged. "I don't have any records of my birth," he said quietly. He looked sad, and Athos reached over and took hold of his hand.

"Are you saying this whole thing has put years on you?" he teased, and Porthos smiled at him, grateful for the attempt at cheering him up.

"Go on," Athos added, looking up at Aramis.

Aramis nodded. "December 20th," he read. "Imperative I recover the manuscript before tomorrow's solstice. D.V. has - DV?"

"Du Vallon?" suggested Porthos, through a mouthful of cake.

"Oh, yes, I see." Aramis pursed his lips, squinting at his uncle's crabbed handwriting. "D.V. has refused once more to listen to reason, and I am left with no other option than to resort to the same measures that were employed against me to such ill effect."

"He's going to nick it back, in other words," said Porthos, and Aramis gave a non-committal shrug, glad Porthos had said it rather than him.

Athos had a nasty thought. "What was so significant about the solstice?" he asked.

Aramis shook his head, scanning the text. "He doesn't mention it again, why?"

"Because it was the twenty first when we found the damn thing. If opening it on the solstice makes it worse somehow - " he let the thought tail off.

"Then, at the risk of sounding like a student, we fucked up," Aramis finished for him, with a smirk at d'Artagnan. He went back to the diary. "Next entry is Christmas Eve, and he seems to be back here at the house. The handwriting's shakier too, like he's tired, or ill." 

"Tell me he gives a step-by-step guide in how to stop this," Athos drawled, without much hope.

"Sadly not." Aramis frowned, and read out the entry. "December 24th. Book of Familiars recovered, but at great cost. Child spared but I fear the mother will not see out the year," he hesitated and looked over at Porthos who was tight-lipped but nodded grimly for him to continue. 

"I have blessed and bound the book, and placed it where I pray it will remain for the rest of time. The legions of Malphas will find no gateway here so long as I draw breath, and God willing they never will."

"No wonder he's cross," Athos remarked under his breath, uncorking one of the bottles of wine.

"The Legions of Malphas?" d'Artagnan echoed. "I don't like the sound of that."

"Who's Malphas when he's at home?" Aramis asked.

"How should I know? But that's the trouble isn't it, he seems to _be_ at home. Yours."

"Familiars," Athos mused. "Spirit guides and psychopomps to the discerning sorcerer." He caught d'Artagnan's baffled look at smiled. "Magical animals, for those in need of the condensed version. Maybe what we've been encountering." He drained his glass and refilled it, standing up.

"Where are you going?" Porthos demanded. 

"Back to the attic. Francois had some interesting looking books up there."

"This is hardly the time to indulge your inner librarian," Aramis said sarcastically.

Athos looked at him, unperturbed. "Demonologies. Heretical gospels. Alchemical tracts. Grimoires." He smiled. "Hardly things your average self-respecting vicar could have on show in his library. But things that might help us find out what we're dealing with."

"If you go, we all go," said Porthos firmly, getting to his feet.

"I'd be glad of the company," Athos conceded with a smile.

They all marched back up the steps and inspected the shelves of arcane looking books. Athos selected a couple of likely tomes and appropriated the armchair, losing himself quickly in their pages.

"I have no idea what I'm looking for," Aramis complained. "Why couldn't he have been more helpful?"

"If he'd been too specific he probably thought he ran the risk of someone undoing his work," said d'Artagnan, fidgeting restlessly.

"Whereas blind ignorance on our part helped immensely," Aramis sighed. "D'Artagnan what _is_ the matter, you're making me tired. Can't you stand still for a second?"

D'Artagnan blushed. "I need the lav," he explained in an undertone. "I think it's all that tea."

Aramis snorted. "I draw the line at watching you piss." He relented. "I'll wait outside though, if you want?" D'Artagnan nodded gratefully, and they headed towards the stairs.

"Where are you going?" Porthos asked in surprise from his seat at the desk.

"Just to the bathroom," Aramis said. "Won't be long." Porthos grunted and returned to his book as they clattered down the steps.

"I've found it," said Athos, looking up and blinking in surprise to find he was alone with Porthos. "Malphas, Prince of Hell. Giver of familiars. Builder of strongholds and houses, knower and manipulator of thoughts and desires. Bringer of life to inanimate objects."

"Bet he's fun at parties," Porthos growled, thinking of the way the noose had squirmed in his hand. "Jesus Christ Athos, Prince of Hell?"

Athos shook his head. "Says here he's commander of many legions of demons. Francois didn't say it was him specifically after all, just that the book could be used as a gateway for them."

"So the thing in the book. Not him?"

"I'd guess just one of his creatures. Spreading his influence, doing his bidding. Paving the way."

"For?"

"The rest."

They stared at each other. 

"Does it say how to stop this?" Porthos asked finally. Athos sighed. 

"No."

"So, all very interesting, but ultimately useless?"

Athos glared at him, stung. "No information is useless." He rubbed his arms uncomfortably. "Manipulator of thoughts and desires," he read again, quietly. "That part sounds horribly familiar, don't you think?"

Porthos wanted to go to him, to pull Athos into his arms comfortingly, protectively, but there was a tension and a remove to his expression that stopped him. He wondered if Athos believed what they'd felt for each other was the result of outside interference, and felt sick. 

"Athos - "

"Come on. We should find the others, tell them what we've learned." Athos made to brush past him and Porthos caught his arm.

"Athos, wait."

"What is it?" Athos demanded, brusque and impatient, but not meeting his eyes.

"I wanted you from the moment I set eyes on you," Porthos whispered.

"What?" This time Athos did look up, startled and confused.

"When you opened the door to me out there in the snow. When you helped me search the library. When you first let me share your bed. Hell, even when you were unmasking me as a fraud. I wanted you Athos, I thought you were incredible. And all of that was before we ever set eyes on the bloody book." 

Porthos took a shaking breath. "I can't speak for you, but I promise what I feel for you has nothing to do with any - demons, or occult nonsense or what have you." He stammered to a halt, conscious Athos hadn't said a word, was just standing there staring at him. "I just - wanted you to know that. Just - you know. In case. You were wondering."

"Well." Athos gave him the ghost of a smile. "That's - that's good to know," he said quietly. And just when Porthos was beginning to think he'd made the biggest fool of himself ever, Athos leaned over and kissed him on the mouth.

"Can we go now?"

Porthos rolled his eyes and flapped at him, gesturing for Athos to precede him down the steps. But as he followed on behind, Porthos was smiling.

They found Aramis waiting on the landing, but before they could say anything the house shook to a series of echoing crashes.

"What the hell was that?" Porthos asked in alarm.

Athos and Aramis looked at each other. "Front door?" Athos hazarded, and Aramis nodded. 

"Although who it could be, at this time of night - " Aramis held up his hands in a half-shrug. "You don't think it's - well, our visitor, do you?"

"I don't think princes of hell bother with knocking," said Athos. "You wait for d'Artagnan, don't leave him alone up here." He pulled Porthos after him and they hurried on down.

"Prince of - what? Athos!" Aramis called after them, then sighed. He knocked gently on the door to the bathroom. "D'Artagnan? You okay in there?" Not that he had any wish to embarrass the boy, but he had been in there rather a long time.

There was no answer, and he frowned. "D'Artagnan?" He knocked more loudly and tried the handle, but the door was locked from the inside. "Is everything alright?"

With no response from within, in increasing concern Aramis tried to barge the door open with his shoulder, but it was old, heavy oak and he just bounced off it with a bruised arm.

Muttering curses he ran down the short passage to look down the stairs to the hall, but there was no sign of Athos or Porthos. He groaned, wondering what to do. 

The door to the parlour was open, and his eye fell on the breadknife, lying on the table where d’Artagnan had left it. He quickly stepped inside and picked it up, wondering if he could slide it through the crack in the bathroom door and force the lock. 

As Aramis straightened up again a movement in the mirror over the fireplace caught his eye, and he hesitated. He could have sworn something had flashed past behind him.

"D'Artagnan?" he called, turning round to look at the empty room. "Athos?"

\--

As they ran across the hall the knocking came again, and Porthos veered to the side, wrenching down one of the shotguns from the wall.

"Porthos, no," Athos protested, as he cracked it open and found to his surprise it was already loaded. 

"If it's corporeal enough to bang on doors, it's corporeal enough to get shot in the arse," Porthos declared, slamming the gun closed again.

"And if it's the local constabulary?" Athos murmured.

"I'm not taking any chances."

"Do you even know how to use one of those?" Athos asked in growing exasperation. Porthos had hardly been brought up as part of the hunting set, after all.

Porthos looked at him levelly. "I'll improvise."

They made their way to the front hallway, moving cautiously now, and Athos unbolted the door while Porthos covered him with the shotgun. 

The door swung back slowly, to reveal nothing but the empty moonlit garden.

"It's messing with us again," said Athos disgustedly, lifting the knocker and letting it fall once, making Porthos jump.

"It was definitely that we heard," Porthos muttered, staring down at the undisturbed snow. "What manner of thing can lift a heavy doorknocker without leaving footprints?"

"Or pawprints," added Athos mischievously, and Porthos glared at him.

"You're enjoying this," he accused.

"Not really." Athos sighed, and closed the door again. "What worries me, is why it should bother with parlour tricks like this. What does it gain?"

"To upset us?" Porthos hazarded. "Scare us?"

Athos held his eyes, looking anxious. "Or to split us up. Aramis and d'Artagnan should have been here by now."

Together they moved back into the great hall, lighting more lamps and candles as they went, to stave off the looming shadows.

Porthos headed towards the stairs, but Athos pulled him back, frowning. "Did you hear that?"

Porthos listened intently, then shook his head. "No? What?"

"Listen!" Athos was looking round, as if trying to figure out where it was coming from. "It's d'Artagnan."

"Where? Athos, I can't hear anything?"

Athos' fingers suddenly sank painfully into his arm, and Athos stared at him with a look of horror. "Tell me you didn’t hear that?" he said hoarsely.

Helpless, Porthos shook his head. "I can't hear anything, what is it?"

Athos went pale. "Screaming," he breathed. "He's screaming." His head snapped round. "The library!" Athos took off at a run, and Porthos made a grab for him but missed.

"Athos!" He started after him but somehow the rug underfoot had become tangled around his ankle and Porthos fell headlong to the floor. Still clutching the shotgun he had to choose between saving himself and falling on it or throwing his arm out to a safe distance.

He chose the latter and hit the floor with his full weight. Lying there dazed and winded he watched Athos run in through the open door to the library with a sense of horror. He didn’t know what it was Athos had heard, but as he hadn't heard anything himself he was willing to bet it wasn't d’Artagnan.

Trying to scramble to his feet, every muscle in his body protesting, Porthos was still on his hands and knees when he saw the door to the library slam closed of its own accord, sealing Athos inside - with the book.

-(tbc)-


	6. Chapter 6

D'Artagnan, having relieved himself, was waiting for the water in the tap to run warm to wash his hands, whilst staring idly at the creeping frost patterns on the window. 

It gradually dawned on him that while the water trickling over his fingers had increased in temperature, it had also thickened in consistency, and he looked down to find the tap running red with blood over his outstretched hand.

He jerked backwards with a yell, flapping his hand in revulsion, but when he looked again his hand was clean, and the water pouring into the basin was running clear.

Growling imprecations, he made himself return to the sink and washed his hands quickly, glaring sternly at the innocent looking water. 

"Just you try it," he muttered. He was drying himself on the towel and wondering why Aramis hadn't reacted to his shout of alarm, when he heard the noise. It came from outside the door, a low, dangerous rumble, half-growl and half-purr, that made his skin prickle with fear.

He stood by the door, hand hovering uncertainly over the bolt. "Aramis?" he called. There was no reply, but a scent of animal musk wafted up to him and something large and powerful gave a sudden angry hiss, close to his face on the other side of the door.

Filled with a primordial sense of terror, d'Artagnan backed away, glad there was a stout door between him and whatever it was. A panther? A _tiger_? Whatever it was, it wasn't about to curl up in his lap.

"Aramis!" he shouted, worried now what had happened to him, and sure that Aramis wouldn't have abandoned him voluntarily. The only response was something heavy flinging itself against the door, making it rattle in its frame.

D’Artagnan looked around in fear for a weapon, wishing he still had the breadknife. Set out on the shelf was his razor, and he picked it up with a sense of relief.

There were claws raking at the wood now, and he wondered fearfully how long it would hold. Phantasm or not, his experience in the bath had proved to him how all too real and dangerous the creatures troubling them could be.

Looking round for another means of escape, he pushed the window open and looked down. On the second floor he was too high up to jump, but the wall was covered with the winter-bare woody latticework of a creeper that looked like it might be sturdy enough to take his weight. 

D'Artagnan turned back. He'd prefer not to trust his life to brittle and icy branches if at all possible. What if the creature at the door was trying to urge him into something exactly that deadly?

He edged back to the door. "Shoo," he muttered. "Good kitty."

"Pathetic."

The quiet voice from the other side of the door made him jump, but his first reaction was one of hope and relief.

_"Athos?"_

"You really are useless, aren't you?" came the response after a second, and d'Artagnan frowned, confused and hurt. He was used to Athos ribbing him about his academic shortcomings, but it had only ever been in good part. Athos had never spoken to him so coldly before, or with such disdain.

"What - what are you talking about?" d'Artagnan stammered, his hand hovering over the latch. His relief at finding the big cat gone and his friends apparently returned was overshadowed by the unexpected cruelty in Athos' voice, and suddenly he didn't want to see the matching coldness in his eyes.

"Little d'Artagnan, so full of his own importance and yet so lacking in anything approaching ability." His voice was mocking, and dripping with venom. "You'll never amount to anything. You do realise that? I assume you do, or you wouldn't waste so much time hanging on to my apron strings, hoping to ingratiate yourself enough to get a passable grade."

"Athos, no." It was half a sob, d'Artagnan hardly able to process the words being thrown at him.

"Oh, please. I just can't shake you can I, you even followed me here. Do you really think I welcomed your company?" The laugh that followed was one of disgust. "Don't imagine I didn't know what you wanted. Did you seriously think for one minute I would be interested in you?"

D’Artagnan slid down the door until he was hunched on the floor, eyes brimming with unshed tears. "No," he mumbled. "No, this isn't you. Why are you saying this?"

"About time someone did. If ever someone needed taking down a peg, it's you." 

"You don't mean that!"

"Oh, don't I? Nobody likes you d'Artagnan. It's about time you accepted that."

"Aramis - "

"Aramis is using you. You're just a cheap fuck to him, do you really think you could ever be more?"

D'Artagnan was gasping for breath, trying to shut out the words, but the voice from beyond the door was relentless. 

"You know what would be the best thing for everyone? If you just did away with yourself right now. It's not like there's anyone that's going to miss you."

D'Artagnan looked down at the razor in his hands. The blade gleamed in the lamplight, and he thought vaguely that he didn't remember opening it. He remembered the feeling of the blood running over his hands in the basin, and stifled a sob. Was this the answer? Had this always been meant to happen?

He screwed his eyes shut, bracing the edge of the razor against his wrist. His heart felt like it had been lacerated already, but he summoned the memory of happier times, determined that if he was going to die, it wouldn't be listening to this cold, poisonous thing that Athos had become. 

They'd laughed together once. There had been happy times. He knew there had. Athos had been his rock, his inspiration, his hope. Athos had told him, time and time again to believe in himself when he was on the brink of giving up.

D'Artagnan opened his eyes. "No."

There was a pause, and a sensation of coiling, feline movement behind the door. "Do it."

"No." D'Artagnan said it again, more firmly, and wiped his eyes. "Athos would never do this. He can be harsh, but he's never unfair. I don't know who you are but you're not him. And I'm not doing it." 

The door shook under the weight of a furious, snarling body, and an overwhelming scent of hot, panting animal made him crawl hurriedly away, choking. 

D'Artagnan pulled himself up and thrust the small window as far as it would open, feeling better already as the cold, fresh air hit his face. He recalled now the way Porthos had described feeling so overwhelmingly miserable and helpless in the attic, and shuddered at the knowledge he'd come so close to falling prey to the same influence.

He took a last look back at the door and climbed up on the basin, squeezing his way out of the tiny window. He had to find the others, and he had to assume that they were in just as much trouble.

Clinging to the windowsill, d'Artagnan felt gingerly around with his boot for a foothold that would take his weight. Shreds of creeper peeled away as frozen roots came unstuck from the stonework, but eventually he felt secure enough to start his descent.

It was slow and painstaking, and more than once he came close to falling off. His fingers were numb with cold and his feet repeatedly slipped on the icy stems, but his mind was now clear and his heart was determined, and he inched his way lower.

Looking down in the hope he was near the ground, d'Artagnan discovered he was still at least twice his own height away from reaching it. He considered jumping, trusting that the snow would break his fall, but he wasn't sure how deep it was and couldn't picture what was beneath it. He didn't want to get this far only to break his ankle landing on gravel, or end up impaling himself on ornamental ironwork. He had a sudden mental image of himself bleeding out on the virgin snow because nobody knew he was there, and shivered.

A section of creeper abruptly tore out beneath his hand and he slithered down another foot before he could catch himself, heart thumping wildly. There was a dull ache spreading out from his palm, and he suspected he was bleeding. 

Taking a deep breath, d'Artagnan felt around for the next foothold. The nearest likely branch was a fair stretch and when his foot was more or less firmly planted he had to let go his current handhold and lunge across to grasp the main trunk.

For a second he thought he'd made it. Then what turned out to be old, dead wood crumbled beneath his foot and he fell backwards into space.

\--

Aramis looked over his shoulder, wondering if d'Artagnan had finally emerged from the bathroom, but the doorway was empty. Hesitating, he turned back to the mirror and again caught that flash of movement. He moved closer, both curious and apprehensive, fingers tightening upon the hilt of the knife as he searched the reflection.

The glass showed merely the empty room behind him, but when his gaze automatically drifted to his own face, he cried out in alarm. His eyes, staring back at him in the mirror, were jet black.

Aramis looked hurriedly away, blinking rapidly and shaking his head. When he looked back, his eyes had returned to normal and he gave a shaky laugh, wondering if it had been a trick of the light or his imagination. But as he watched, another transformation stole over his reflection.

It was a subtle change at first, that left him wondering with a perturbed surprise when he'd started going grey. Then, as he watched the few isolated grey hairs became streaks, his hair and beard fading more and more rapidly into first grey and then white, thinning too now, and he couldn't help raising a hand to his head to reassure himself that what he was seeing wasn't actually happening in real time. 

To his relief, his hair felt as thick and neat under his hand as he pictured it to be, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the transformation in the glass, as his hair lengthened and faded and thinned and his face aged before his eyes, the skin now saggy and wrinkled, the eyes sunken and bloodshot.

To a man who'd always taken pride in his appearance and gloried in his physicality it was a sobering sight. The vision didn't stop with the devastation of extreme old age, but continued to deteriorate, the face becoming waxy in death and decaying in front of him, until nothing was left but a grinning skull covered in paper-thin skin and cobwebs. 

Despite its obvious deadness it was still looking at him, following his gestures and the direction of his gaze until it finally screamed at him in triumph, a hideous shrill echo in his head. Just as suddenly, it was his own face looking back at him again.

Aramis cleared his throat. "Am I supposed to be scared by that?" he said aloud. "Death comes to all of us."

"You'll die alone. Does that not scare you?" 

The voice was d'Artagnan's, and Aramis looked round in puzzlement at finding the room still empty.

"Don't we all?" he muttered. "It's generally considered bad manners to try and take anyone with you."

"You try and find meaning in the arms of endless lovers, but you're empty inside," continued the voice, ignoring him. "It's why you never let any of them stick around long enough to get close to you. Because you know they'll inevitably be disappointed with what they find."

"Well you didn't seem overly disappointed," Aramis said dryly, although he suspected that whatever he was talking to, it wasn't d'Artagnan.

"And that's the crowning achievement of your year, is it? Seducing a student too naive to say no?"

Aramis shifted uncomfortably. He tried very hard not to have regrets in life, but this was too close to what Athos had already accused him of to sit well. "I haven't hurt anyone. And I don't have to defend my actions to whatever the hell you are."

"Maybe I'm your conscience?" mocked the voice, suddenly up close in his ear, and Aramis jumped.

"I don't have one. So you're out of luck."

"Oh, I think you do. But pretend if it makes you feel better, by all means. You lie to everyone else, why not yourself as well?"

"I do not lie!" Aramis whirled around with the knife raised high, searching fruitlessly for something to take his growing rage out on.

"You pretend you're happy. You pretend you're not desperately searching for meaning in a life that has none. You pretend you're not afraid of what your life will be once your looks fade and the pretty young things no longer fall into your bed. You tell yourself you won't die alone in syphilitic, derided disgrace."

Aramis was facing the mirror once more, and now could make out a shadowy presence at his shoulder. It seemed to blur and distort, neither one thing nor another. Sometimes it seemed a grinning devil, sometimes d'Artagnan. Sometimes it looked like Aramis himself.

"You know the way to avoid all those years of misery waiting for you would be to die young..."

Aramis raised the knife, his knuckles white around the handle. The thing reflected in the mirror seemed to lean out of the glass, obscenely eager for him to plunge the blade into his own chest.

"Go to hell." Aramis drove the handle into the centre of the mirror, smashing the glass into splinters.

The reflection shattered, taking the thing with it and the room fell silent once more. Aramis shivered, although it felt as if a weight had been lifted. He hadn't realised quite how oppressive the atmosphere had been, until it had eased.

Remembering d'Artagnan, he was about to run back to the bathroom when from downstairs came the earsplitting noise of a shotgun blast.

\--

"Well he couldn't wait to get away from you, could he?" said a conversational voice in Porthos' ear.

"What?" He struggled to untangle himself from the persistent coils of the rug, and stood up. "Aramis, is that you?" He looked over at where the door to the library had closed on Athos, and wondered anxiously why he hadn't come out again. "What are you on about?"

"I'm talking about Athos. Could hardly run fast enough to get away from you."

Porthos looked around in confusion. "Where are you?"

"Right here." The voice was behind him and he turned, scanning the empty hall uneasily. 

"Aramis, this isn't funny."

"Oh, you think I'm joking? The only joke here is you. Thinking you're welcome here. Thinking Athos wants you. He told me how you forced yourself on him you know. Tell me, did you enjoy it? How did it feel, pinning him down, overpowering him like that? You must be proud, such selfish strength, such dominance."

"Shut up." Porthos was turning slow circles, trying to work out where the voice was coming from. He picked up the shotgun again, taking comfort from its weight in his hands. "That's not how it happened."

"Oh, don't tell me you're ashamed?" 

Porthos shook his head violently, trying to clear it more than in a gesture of denial. "You're not Aramis, are you?" he said slowly.

"I'm touched. You think I could not be so cruel?"

"You probably could," said Porthos grimly. "But I don't believe for a second Athos would have told you the details. Which means you're just in my head."

"Oh, best blow it off then dearest. Do us all a favour." 

Porthos grinned savagely. "You don't fool me twice. And you're not stopping me from helping Athos." 

"You're too late. He's already dead."

"No." Porthos went cold. "I don't believe you." He looked over at the library door, still obstinately closed. Why hadn't Athos come out again once he'd found himself alone? Porthos swallowed. What if he wasn't alone. What if all this was just a means of delaying help until it was too late?

He took a step towards the door and then jerked back as the shotgun twisted in his hands. "Stop it!"

There was no answer forthcoming, but the gun continued to buck and writhe in his hands, seemingly trying to turn on him. Porthos wrestled frantically with it, realising that anything that could make it move of its own accord could just as easily pull the trigger on him. 

A sudden crash behind him distracted Porthos for a second, and in that instant the gun wheeled around, dragging him with it. To his horror he found himself face to face with d'Artagnan, dishevelled and covered in snow, having apparently just come in through the front door.

"Woah!" D'Artagnan threw up his hands defensively, dodging sideways. "Porthos, it's me! It really is!" he yelled, causing Porthos to wonder if he'd been subject to the same treacherous whispers.

"I can't control it!" he shouted back. "It's got a mind of its own!"

The gun wrenched sideways in his arms, tracking d'Artagnan's movements, and Porthos had a belated moment of wishing he'd heeded Athos' advice and never touched the damn thing in the first place. He tried to drop it, but it was as if the gun was welded to his hands, and he felt his finger tightening on the trigger.

"Get down!" he bellowed, and a split second later the gun kicked in his hands, blasting both barrels towards the defenceless d’Artagnan.

\--

Finding himself alone in the library, Athos skidded to a halt, spinning round in shock as the door slammed closed behind him. The screams he'd been hearing cut off as abruptly as they'd started, and he looked around warily, beginning to realise that he'd been fooled.

"D'Artagnan?" he called, then sighed when there was no answer. At least this hopefully meant d'Artagnan was still safe upstairs with Aramis. He gave a wary look at the book lying open on the desk, and started to move back towards the door, already regretting his folly in getting so far ahead of Porthos and hoping he was alright, as he hadn't followed him in.

Athos' foot hit something on the floor that clinked and rolled, and he bent to pick it up. It was a tiny bottle, and he squinted at the label, wondering what he'd done with his reading glasses.

"Curare?" Athos frowned. It must have come from the poison arrow display case. He hoped d'Artagnan hadn't been fooling around with them.

_"Just a scratch."_

"What?" Athos turned, wondering who had spoken. It had sounded like Porthos, and he assumed he'd finally caught up, but the door remained closed and he appeared to be alone.

"A scratch. That's all it would take. Nothing but a little prick." The voice came again, sounding amused as it whispered in his ear, and Athos swung wildly round but he was still alone.

"Who is it? Porthos is that you? Stop mucking about."

"Oh, you like telling me what to do, don't you? Mr high-and-mighty Athos with all his precious qualifications and his professorship." 

"What are you talking about? Where _are_ you?"

"I'm right here." This time Athos felt the warm breath on his neck and whirled round, but the room remained stubbornly vacant.

Athos set the vial on the table and folded his arms stubbornly. "Well it makes a change from rats I suppose," he declared, more bravely than he felt. "What's next, a rabbit out of a hat?"

"You think you know who you're talking to," _something_ taunted in Porthos' voice.

"I know you're not Porthos. Other than that I don't really care."

"Oh, but I am. At least, I'm what he's thinking. I know that which is in men's minds, did your research not tell you that? I think it did. I was there, remember?"

Athos licked his lips. "Why should I believe you?"

"Why shouldn't you?" The glass vial moved across the table top of its own accord, bumping against his hand, and he jumped.

"Oh, I don't know. Forces of evil, legions of hell? Doesn't generally pay to listen to them." Athos started towards the door, but suddenly the whole desk slid across the polished floor to bar his way, with an earsplitting squeal of wood against wood that seemed to drown out a distant bang from outside.

The voice was back in his ear, and it sounded so much like Porthos it made him shiver.

"Why should I lie when the truth can hurt you so much more?"

"You wouldn't know the truth if it shot you in the arse," Athos retorted, using Porthos' earlier words as a comforting defence. But even as the next thought entered his mind, the voice spoke it aloud.

"Where am I then? Why aren't I rushing to your rescue? The door's not locked."

"I - "

"I don't care, that's why. I couldn't care less what happens to you. Any of you. When you're dead I'll sell the book and anything else I can get my hands on, and I'll never spare you a thought again."

"You're lying," Athos breathed. He knew it wasn't Porthos, he _knew_ it, but to hear such callous words in his voice cut him to the quick. He sank down into the chair, leaning his elbows on the desk and trying to block out the voice that was still whispering to him. 

Athos knew he should get up, get out, but there was no strength in his legs or breath in his lungs. He felt sick, and dizzy, and desperately, bone-achingly sad.

"Even your own parents didn't want you, did they - _Olivier_?"

"No," Athos breathed, curling an arm protectively over his head as if he could shut out the words, his other arm cast helplessly across the table.

"They disowned you the day they found you in the barn, being buggered by the stable boy." The voice chuckled, pleased with the moan he gave. "You lied to everyone, told them your family was dead because you couldn't bear the shame. Even your best friend doesn't know the truth. How often have you lied to him? Aramis thinks he was your first, doesn't he?" 

"You're not Porthos, you couldn't know all this," Athos choked. "You're taking this from my head, not his."

"Then I must be you, mustn't I?" The insidious voice changed smoothly to his own, and he blanched. "Who could hate you more than you do, after all? Do the world a favour and end it all Athos, nobody will miss you. Just one little cut, mixed with the poison. Put an end to all this pain."

He felt a hand come to rest on his where it was outstretched on the table, gentle and persuading. 

Athos looked up through a haze of tears to see that the hand resting on his was covered in black hair, with long dirty yellow nails. He dragged his free hand through his hair, shaking with emotion, and let it fall to his lap in listless despair. 

Then in one flashing movement he brought his clenched fist up from beneath the table and impaled the demonical hand with the letter-opener, pulled from his belt.

He hadn't cared if he'd stabbed his own hand in the process, but the blade sank between his fingers and he yanked his arm back, leaving the creature pinned to the tabletop.

"They may not want me, but I will not abandon them to the likes of you," Athos spat, rising to his feet. 

"You think you could say anything to me that I've not heard a thousand times from myself? I've had a lifetime of practice in not giving in. Maybe you can kill me and maybe you can't, but I will not surrender to you."

The creature hissed and squealed at him, but it seemed firmly pinned to the table and Athos had a brief recollection of cold iron and steel being anathema to such creatures. Its face blurred and twisted, somewhere between human and animal and _other_ , and Athos backed away, wondering what the fuck he was supposed to do now.

-(tbc)-


	7. Chapter 7

"Is it safe to come out?" d'Artagnan asked warily. All Porthos could see were two sets of fingers gripping the edge of the table.

"Yeah," he said, hurling the now quiescent gun away from him and watching it slide across the floor. "Yeah, it's empty."

"What the hell's going on down there?" 

Porthos looked up to find Aramis hurrying down the stairs towards them.

"I think Hell might just be the answer to that," he said grimly, holding out a hand and pulling d'Artagnan to his feet. "Sorry," he muttered, and d'Artagnan gave a shaky laugh and clapped him on the shoulder.

"No problem. I'm just glad you're not a crack shot."

Aramis hurried over to join them. "Where's Athos?"

"In the library." Porthos nodded towards the closed door. "It's shut him in there. And was doing its best to stop me following."

"We'll see about that," d'Artagnan said hotly, then looked uncertain. "Do we have a plan?"

Aramis shrugged. "Find what's doing this and hit it repeatedly until it stops?" 

"I like it." Porthos grinned, and there was more anger in it than amusement.

D'Artagnan went over to the fireplace and picked up a large iron poker, brandishing it triumphantly. Then he had another idea. There was a bundle of kindling to the side of the grate in a metal bucket, and he tipped it out and picked up the bucket, rattling the poker in it loudly. "Bell," he explained, seeing the others' questioning looks.

Aramis selected a decorative candle from the table and held it up. Next to d'Artagnan's poker it seemed somehow lacking, and he snorted. "Suddenly I feel rather inadequate."

Porthos strode across to the fireplace and picked out a huge piece of wood that was more branch than log. He tipped the oil from one of the lamps over the end and lit it, turning back to the others with a satisfied nod. "Candle."

"Hardly," d'Artagnan said dubiously.

"It's the thought that counts."

Aramis nodded. "He's right, actually. Intention counts for more than props." He looked at Porthos' flaming brand and smiled slightly. "Although now I kind've wish I had a pitchfork." 

\--

Athos faced the furious imp with a wary, horrified anger. It was between him and the door, and was making every effort to shake itself loose from the burning touch of the steel through its hand. He looked round, wondering if there was anything else he could use as a weapon and briefly wishing Aramis' uncle had been into collecting something useful like swords rather than ethnographic artefacts.

He was just wondering whether he could hurl the crystal ball at it, when the door burst open and Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan piled into the room. They drew up short in surprise at finding the imp so physically present, but recovered quickly and fanned out, surrounding the creature just as it finally wrenched itself free.

In a snarling frenzy it lunged towards the window, only to be driven back by Porthos delivering a vicious blow with the burning brand. D'Artagnan clattered his bucket at it with deafening vigour, then gave a triumphant laugh as it flinched away from the poker.

"Don't like that, do you!"

"It's the iron," Athos called. "I think it hurts it."

D'Artagnan immediately took another swipe and the imp fled towards the door. "Don't let it get away!" Athos shouted, but it had hurled itself with inhuman speed between Porthos and Aramis before they could react.

They span round, shouting with frustration, but in the doorway the imp had come up against an unexpected obstacle. A shadowy figure barred its way, just a fleeting impression of a broad black hat and a long black garment that might have been a coat or might have been a cassock. 

With a scream of rage, the imp turned at bay and was preparing to lunge back into the room when Aramis hit it square in the face with the bible.

It vanished. 

There followed a confused second where everyone stared at each other in alarm, then Porthos pointed at the Bestiary lying open on the table. "Look!"

The imp was back on the page, tongue protruding and tail raised in anger, but fixed once more in inks and paint.

Athos was the first to gather himself and darted forward, slamming the book shut. "Aramis - here." Athos grabbed the heavy bible from him and dropped it on top. "D'Artagnan, give me the poker." He added the iron rod to the pile, and stepped back, panting. "That should hold it."

They all stared tensely at the book, but as the seconds ticked past and nothing happened, everyone relaxed a little.

"Is it over?" d'Artagnan asked. "Have we beaten it?"

"Trapped it, would be closer to the truth I suspect," said Athos.

"We should burn it," said Aramis resolutely. "Just to be sure."

As everyone gradually accepted that the danger might be past, they sagged in relief. Porthos dropped the still smouldering branch into the library fireplace, and turned to Athos. "You alright?"

Athos nodded tightly. He looked pale and drawn, but unharmed, and Porthos moved to stand next to him, comforting with his presence. 

"Thank you," Athos said quietly. "All of you." He gave a slight smile. "I appreciate your timing."

"How did you get it to manifest in the first place?" Aramis asked. "It was all reflections and disembodied voices with me."

Porthos and d'Artagnan exchanged a look, each thinking that their own experiences clearly hadn't been unique and wondering what the others had heard.

Athos shook his head. "I'm not sure that I did anything. Maybe it just sensed - I don't know." He looked away. "Weakness, perhaps."

"You're not weak," Porthos objected. "You caught the bloody thing, didn't you?"

Athos nodded silently. He seemed withdrawn rather than triumphant, but didn't pull away when Porthos put an arm round him. 

"So now what?" asked d'Artagnan. "Do we torch it?"

"I'd feel more comfortable doing it in daylight," said Aramis. "I'd guess it's safe for now. Maybe even safe until the next solstice?" he suggested, looking at Athos.

"Who knows? Let's not take any chances. And I don't think we should leave it unguarded, or leave anyone alone for that matter. Not yet."

"Suits me." Porthos hugged him closer, and Athos gave him a wan smile.

While Athos and Porthos kept watch in the library, Aramis and d'Artagnan went to fetch blankets and coffee, and the four of them settled into chairs, prepared to sit up for the rest of the long night.

\--

D'Artagnan woke with a start, blinking into the shaft of sunlight pouring into his face. His last memory was of leaning against Aramis' shoulder and yawning, but now he seemed to be curled on the sofa alone, with a blanket tucked around him.

He sat up in guilty haste, embarrassed at having fallen asleep when they were all supposed to be on guard.

Blue eyes met his from across the room, coolly amused. "It's alright," said Athos. "You haven't missed anything."

"Where are the others?" D'Artagnan pulled the blanket closer round him. The fire had gone out, and the room was cold.

"Making some tea. And - finding something that'll burn."

D'Artagnan nodded. "You should have woken me," he muttered.

Athos just raised an eyebrow. "Who's to say it's not better that at least one of us is rested?" He smiled. "No-one thinks less of you for it," he added quietly, as the door opened to admit Aramis and Porthos with a tray of tea and toast, and a bottle of brandy.

"I like your idea of breakfast," Athos said, as Porthos set it on the table.

Porthos grinned at him. "It's for the book."

"Are we burning it, or toasting it?"

Aramis snorted. "I think we all deserve a drink after what we've been through," he said, eyeing the book warily. They were all instinctively keeping their distance from it, he realised.

"Last night," he said slowly, shooing d'Artagnan's feet off the settee so he could sit down. "Just before it went back into the book. Did anyone else see - in the doorway?"

"I'm not sure what I saw," said Athos. "But yes, there was something there. Something that stopped it escaping."

"Something? Or someone?" 

"You think it was Francois?"

Aramis sighed. "It makes sense, as much as any of this does." He gave a tired laugh. "Not sure I like the idea of him wandering about the place watching what we get up to though."

Porthos smirked. "He's probably had more important things to worry about than who his nephew's been cavorting with. Being dead, and all."

Aramis made a face and drained his teacup. "Are we doing this then?"

They gathered around the table solemnly. "The one thing that worries me is why Francois didn't burn it in the first place," said d'Artagnan. "I suppose we don't risk freeing it again by this do we?"

Aramis shrugged. "He was a collector after all. Maybe he couldn't bring himself to destroy it. He thought it would never be found, I imagine."

"It _is_ a rare volume," Athos mused. 

"A priceless rare volume," Porthos added meaningfully.

"And an heirloom," said Aramis.

D'Artagnan glared round at them all. "I don't believe this. Don't tell me you're having seconds thoughts about burning it?"

He caught Aramis trying to hide a smirk and glowered with sudden relief and indignance. "You're not are you?" he sighed. "You're winding me up. I hate all of you."

"It's just so easy," Athos apologised with a smile and a shake of the head, and Porthos gave a cackle of laughter and thumped d'Artagnan on the back cheerfully.

"I say we do it," Aramis declared, laying his hand on top of the pile comprising book, bible and poker. "Do you agree?"

"Yes." D'Artagnan slapped his own hand down on top of Aramis', and Athos and Porthos followed suit. 

With a certain amount of trepidation they carried the book outside, holding it firmly shut. After the storms and blizzards of the preceding days, the sun was now shining out of a clear blue sky and everyone felt their spirits lift.

There was an old cast iron water trough against the wall of the woodshed, and they pulled it out into the centre of the yard and placed the book inside, with the poker laid across the top. Nobody had felt entirely comfortable with burning the bible along with the bestiary, but this way it was surrounded by cold iron, and as secure as they could make it.

Aramis doused it liberally with the brandy and Athos dropped in a match. The book caught immediately, the old dry pages crackling and curling with a hungry ferocity. The leather cover blackened and blistered, and suddenly all of them were assailed by the most terrible stench of death and decay.

"God, what is that?" d'Artagnan coughed, turning his head away with his hand pressed to his nose.

"I've smelt it before," said Athos, looking revolted. "When the rats came."

Staring into the flames, determined to watch to the end just in case anything tried to escape from the fire, Aramis started muttering something under his breath. After a second the others realised it was the Lord's Prayer, and first Athos, then Porthos and d'Artagnan joined in until all four of them were reciting it loudly and boldly, taking comfort from the familiar words.

Gradually, the stench died away and a fresh breeze blew away the last of it, fanning the flames to greater height, and stirring clouds of ash into the air that faded into the sunshine like melting fog.

They stood there, the four of them, in silent witness until the last of the book was burned away, and the flames finally died out. When it was over, they blinked at each other as if coming out of a trance, stretching and moving cramped and cold limbs, they'd hardly been aware of.

The mood was sober and heavy, until Aramis gave a sudden laugh. 

"Do you know what today is?"

The others looked at him blankly and he grinned. "Christmas eve."

"Is it?" Athos looked surprised. "I'd completely lost track."

"Time flies when you're being haunted," muttered d'Artagnan.

"So." Aramis clapped his hands together. "I vote we pack up our stuff, whatever we can carry, and get out of here. We'll go to the inn in the village, I'm sure they can put us up for Christmas. What do you say?"

The others nodded. "Let's do it," said d'Artagnan agreed eagerly. "Even if that thing is gone, I'm not sure I fancy spending another night here."

They each went their separate ways to hastily pack up an overnight bag, and although everyone found themselves staring into the shadows and listening nervously for voices, nothing happened to disturb them.

Porthos, bag over his shoulder, stopped off on his way down the stairs to see if Athos was ready. His door was open, and he looked up at Porthos' quiet knock and waved him in.

"Coming. I'm nearly ready." Athos put his shaving kit into his bag and zipped it up.

Porthos came over. Despite their apparent triumph over the forces arrayed against them, Athos had looked tense all morning and still did.

"Are you alright?" Porthos asked quietly, running a hand down Athos' arm.

"Yes. Yes, of course." Athos gave him a questioning smile, but it didn't quite meet his eyes and Porthos frowned.

"What did it say to you?" he murmured.

Athos immediately looked guarded. "What do you mean?"

"The thing from the book," Porthos said. "It told me things. Bad things. Lies. And from what Aramis and d'Artagnan have said, it spoke to them too. So I was just wondering. If it said anything to you?"

Athos hesitated, then nodded, just once. Porthos traced the back of his fingers down Athos' cheek. "It was all lies," he insisted quietly.

"Except where it was the truth," Athos said bleakly. "Come on, let's go." He turned away and picked up his bag, but Porthos caught him by the hand.

"As long as you know which was which," he said. For a second they stared into each other's eyes. Athos looked away first, but Porthos reached out and tilted his face back to look at him with a gentle finger, and kissed him lightly on the mouth.

"Tell me what it said?" Porthos coaxed, but Athos shook his head.

"Maybe one day," he said quietly. 

Porthos nodded slowly, accepting he wasn't ready. "I'll hold you to that." Porthos hugged him then, suddenly and fiercely, and surprised a laugh out of him.

A little of the tension went out of Athos' shoulders, and this time his smile was more genuine. "Come on," he repeated softly, taking Porthos' hand. "Let's get out of here."

\--

The walk down to the village was a surprisingly cheerful one. Everyone felt better to be away from the house and out in the fresh air, and despite having to labour through two miles of deep snow, they reached the village feeling more positive than they had for days.

The landlady of the inn welcomed them with considerable astonishment at realising they'd been snowed in for days, and ushered them inside with motherly concern.

"I've got two rooms free," she said, as they stamped the snow from their feet and eyed the roaring log fire with covetous pleasure. "If you boys don't mind sharing?"

Aramis took off his hat and beamed at her. "Do you know, Mrs Cartwright," he said. "I think you'll find we won't mind that at all."

\--

Having sat up all the previous night, they were weary beyond measure. Upon gaining the sanctuary of their room, Athos and Porthos simply crawled into the big soft bed still half-dressed and curled up protectively against each other. 

The sun fell in bright bars through the leadwork of the window and they fell asleep with their faces turned towards it, comforted by the light.

Down the hall, d'Artagnan and Aramis had repaired to the bathroom, both finding that neither were quite yet comfortable at being alone for any length of time. Having filled the bath, it was with a certain unease that Aramis lowered himself into it after his previous experience, but at the same time he was determined not to let it affect him. As he pointed out to d'Artagnan, who was watching him with an equally suppressed anxiety, he could hardly go the rest of his life without ever taking another bath, so he might as well start now.

The warm water soothed his tired limbs, and he relaxed by inches. D'Artagnan dabbled his fingers in the water, then took hold of Aramis' hand.

"You could always join me," Aramis smiled, finding that despite the lingering associations of so nearly being drowned, the experience of lying naked in a bath before the scrutiny of his fully-dressed young lover was unexpectedly arousing.

D'Artagnan blushed and ducked his head before daring to catch Aramis' eye again.

"You're serious?" he demanded, as Aramis continued to look up at him enquiringly.

"Why not?" Aramis sank lower in the water and let his knees fall open, drawing his free hand up his slowly swelling cock. "The door's locked. It might do us both some good. Better memories, eh?" he added softly. 

D'Artagnan's lips twitched and he said nothing, but started to unbutton his shirt. Aramis watched with pleasure as he steadily stripped off his clothes, looking self-conscious but amused.

With a certain amount of laughter and sloshing of water, d'Artagnan climbed awkwardly into the bathtub with Aramis, settling between his legs and leaning back carefully. Aramis wrapped his arms around him and for a minute just held him tightly, face buried in his hair. 

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I imagine this isn't quite what you expected of your holiday. I mean, what with the nearly dying and everything."

D'Artagnan turned in his arms and kissed him. "On the other hand, I quite like this part," he smiled. "I didn't really expect this, either."

"At least, not with me," Aramis teased, and laughed when d'Artagnan blushed. 

"I wouldn't have it any other way," d'Artagnan said quietly.

"Glad to hear it," Aramis smiled, and kissed him again. D'Artagnan was sitting in his lap by now, hard against his belly, and Aramis ran wet hands down his back, making him shiver.

"Tell me what to do," d'Artagnan whispered, nuzzling kisses into the corner of Aramis' mouth. "Tell me what you want."

Aramis let his hands slip down to cup d'Artagnan's buttocks, lifting him closer with a breathy laugh. He'd been constantly amazed by how open d'Artagnan was to everything they'd done, how willing he was to try everything Aramis had suggested.

Perhaps it was the fearlessness of the young, Aramis thought. D'Artagnan couldn't picture a world where he might actually get into trouble for doing this, therefore he'd decided it was nothing to be worried about. It was all still an exciting new game, a scandalous novelty in the safety of the countryside, a long way from home. 

"Aramis?" D'Artagnan shifted his position, resting on his knees astride Aramis' lap. "Is everything alright?"

Aramis blinked, wondering what his face had shown. "Yes, of course. Sorry, where were we?" He let his fingers curl around d'Artagnan's erection and began to stroke him slowly, dipping his hand in the warm water with each pass.

"You're either afraid I'll leave you, or trying to work out how to get rid of me," said d'Artagnan with rather startling frankness, studying Aramis' face. "But I can't work out which."

Aramis raised his eyebrows. "Are you always this direct?"

"It generally saves time." D'Artagnan grinned apologetically. "Sorry. Athos is always saying that I 'confuse openness with rudeness, regrettably often'."

"And do you ever listen to him?" Aramis teased.

"If I listened to Athos I wouldn't be sitting in a bath with you, would I?" 

"Fair point. And for the record, I wasn't trying to work out a way of getting rid of you," said Aramis. "Far from it."

D'Artagnan wriggled closer at that, taking Aramis' cock into his own hand and pressing it together with his own. "Good. Because it's nearly Christmas, and I want to be your present."

"Well I seem to have succeeded in unwrapping you already," said Aramis with a smile, running his hands appreciatively over d'Artagnan's body. 

"Sit up a little," Aramis murmured after a while, and when d'Artagnan obliged he let his hand dip beneath him. He watched d'Artagnan close his eyes and part his lips as he felt Aramis' fingers working him open, slow and gentle. 

D'Artagnan had closed his eyes every time Aramis had touched him in this way, as if his natural embarrassment at what Aramis was doing was too much for him to watch, but his quiet sighs of approval were more than enough to encourage Aramis to continue.

The warm water made it easy to relax, and d'Artagnan needed little persuading to attempt lowering himself onto Aramis' wet and rigid cock. He knelt up over his lap and with the help of Aramis' steadying hands, sank down by gradual inches.

"Breathe," Aramis whispered, seeing that d'Artagnan was holding his breath. "You're tensing up."

D'Artagnan let it out in a huff of laughter, resting his hands on Aramis' shoulders and easing his way further down onto his cock.

"God you're amazing," Aramis breathed, leaning up to capture d'Artagnan's mouth in a reverential kiss. 

"How do I let you talk me into this stuff?" d'Artagnan asked, now panting quickly and shallowly as he gradually became accustomed to the feeling of Aramis thick and hard inside him.

"I don't remember you taking a lot of convincing," Aramis laughed, rubbing soothing circles on the small of d'Artagnan's back, and trying to resist the urge to thrust up into him before he was ready. "Do you need to get off again?"

D'Artagnan shook his head tightly. "Just give me a minute." He leaned forward with Aramis still buried to the balls inside him, and Aramis hugged him close. 

"Take your time," he whispered. "I don't want to hurt you."

Slowly D'Artagnan started to move, bracing himself on Aramis' shoulders and lifting himself up a little way before letting the weight of his body slide him down again.

"Christ," d'Artagnan managed, his eyes crossing slightly at the burn of pleasure it induced. He did it again, and again, rising further each time and making Aramis groan at the sudden spike of fresh arousal as d'Artagnan gradually fucked himself harder and faster on his cock.

They gripped each other fiercely, Aramis wrapping one hand around d’Artagnan’s bouncing cock and pumping him roughly, in time with their movements. 

D'Artagnan came first, painting white streaks up Aramis' chest and muffling his groans with his own wrist, pressed hard enough against his mouth to leave teethmarks in the skin. Seconds later he felt the hot rush of Aramis' climax inside him and writhed on his cock, drawing out the pleasure for both of them.

Spent, afterwards d'Artagnan lay in Aramis' arms and idly rinsed the traces of his own orgasm from his chest.

"We'd better clean up the room before we go," Aramis said sleepily. "Looks like we may have caused a tidal wave."

"Yes, I think I felt it," smirked d'Artagnan, making him laugh. He peered over the side of the bath and made a face at the amount of water on the floor. "Oh dear."

"If one of the others comes in here next they'll think something tried to drown us again," Aramis said, stretching out and groping d'Artagnan's backside shamelessly.

D'Artagnan sat up and shivered. "And there was me having nearly forgotten about it." He climbed out of the bath and offered Aramis a hand. "Come on, the water's getting cold anyway."

Aramis clambered out after him and wrapped his arms around d'Artagnan from behind. "I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to remind you."

"It's okay." D'Artagnan kissed him, then sighed. "Do you really think it's all over now?"

"I hope to God it is," Aramis nodded. "I guess the test will be going back to collect the rest of my things." He looked uneasy for a second. "I have no right to ask this, but - "

"Of course we'll come," d'Artagnan said immediately. "Safety in numbers, remember?"

Aramis nodded with a certain relief. "Thank you. Wait till the snow melts though, I think. I don't fancy that walk again. My legs still ache."

D'Artagnan handed him a towel and grinned. "In that case, I think we should both go and have a nice lie down..."

\--

Waking the next morning, Porthos found Athos was still asleep, nestled into the crook of his arm. He shifted slightly to a more comfortable position and looked down at him. Athos' face was relaxed in sleep, and he looked so peaceful Porthos couldn't help smiling goofily at him, hoping that the day had nothing more taxing to offer them than a good long lie in followed by an even longer Christmas dinner. 

The night before, the four of them had reconvened in the public bar to eat a late supper before going out with the rest of the pub's incumbents to midnight mass. Upon their return there had been no disturbances during the night, and Porthos hoped this meant that it was finally all over. 

Or, in the case of himself and Athos, just beginning, although there was a fear he was keeping firmly buried that now they were away from the claustrophobic atmosphere of the house and the shared danger, Athos might have no wish to prolong their association.

Beside him, Athos stirred and blinked up at him. Porthos smiled, and to his relief Athos smiled back.

"Happy Christmas," Porthos murmured, and Athos gave a low laugh.

"Oh yes, of course. Happy Christmas." He pulled himself up to sit next to him, and Porthos screwed up his courage and leaned in to kiss him.

To his considerable relief Athos immediately returned the kiss with interest, and folded Porthos into his arms with an easy familiarity. 

They were wearing long underwear, both their nightshirts having been forgotten beneath the pillows of Athos' bed in their haste to depart the house. They slid back down into the bed together, kissing with increasing fervour, until they were both hard and breathless.

"I've got a confession to make," Porthos murmured, when it seemed inevitable that their kisses were going to lead to more.

"You do seem to have a lot of those," said Athos, dryly, and Porthos gave a sheepish laugh.

"I - stole something from the house after all."

Athos looked startled. "What?"

Porthos let him hang for a beat, then smirked. "Aramis' bath oil."

There was a second where Athos processed this, and then to Porthos' delight he collapsed against him in breathy laughter. Porthos hugged him close, beaming.

"You're a bad man," Athos smiled.

"Guilty as charged."

They kissed each other again and things became even more heated, hands finding their way into underwear, stroking and teasing, until Porthos pulled back with a slight hesitation.

"Athos - you do want this, right?"

Athos cupped Porthos' face in his hand and looked questioningly at him. "I seem to remember you asked me that before. Do you think I'm likely to have changed my mind?"

Porthos gave an awkward smile. "Just checking."

Athos thought back to the voices that had tormented him, and wondered for the first time what they might have said to Porthos that night.

"You told me once, that you wanted me from the first minute you set eyes on me?" Athos said quietly. 

Porthos nodded, wondering what he was leading up to.

"Well, you weren't the only one." Athos leaned in and kissed him. "I may have issues with what I feel I should want, but they've never yet stopped me wanting it in the first place," he whispered.

Porthos grinned in slow delight, and bore him down to the pillows.

With liberal use of the purloined bottle of oil, Porthos spent the best part of the next hour bringing Athos to a point where he was literally begging to be taken. Working him open with slick and gentle fingers, Porthos brought him to the brink of climax over and over, before drawing away again, leaving Athos thrashing and laughing in the sheets, a tousled and gasping mess. He was undone by inches, Porthos determined to show him how gentleness could be just as intense, and how much he deserved this to feel good.

"Porthos. Please." Practically incoherent with need, Athos' eyes were dark and wide, his cock aching and stomach all sticky.

Porthos was only just keeping it together himself. Slippery with oil, conscious of his blood pulsing through his body like a distant hum, he finally pushed into him with infinite care.

Athos gave a bodily shudder of relief, wrapping his limbs around Porthos demandingly and urging him deeper. Porthos' fingers inside him had been a revelation, but this was what he craved, what he needed, and he was so, so ready. 

The feeling of Porthos thrusting between his legs, filling him and stretching him until he felt he'd come apart at the seams made Athos throw his head back and moan. 

Porthos smiled as he rocked into him. Even Athos' cries of passion were quiet and polite, although no less heartfelt for that. He could feel in Athos' body just how much he wanted this, needed this, and was intent on satisfying him to the best of his ability. 

This was a whole new world for Porthos too. He'd had a number of men before, but they'd all been rushed and furtive liaisons, more often than not anonymous hook-ups encountered in a certain public house he knew of, and never spoken of again. He'd certainly never been with someone he cared about like this, never had time to spend in lazy kisses and the sweet agony of infinitely drawn-out gratification. 

Porthos could feel his climax building, a knot of pressure in his groin that tightened with every low moan that fell from Athos' lips, every twist of the body beneath him. He bit his lip and increased the driving rhythm of his hips, wanting Athos to come first, wanting to see him come apart.

 _"Porthos."_ It was barely a whisper, but Porthos kissed his name from Athos' lips and smiled. 

"I've got you," he breathed. "It's okay. It's okay to come for me. Let go for me Athos. I'm yours, and I'm here, and I love you."

Athos took a shuddering breath and went still for a split second before spilling his release all over his belly and chest with a shiver of completion. 

Porthos gathered him into his arms, mess and all, and thrust into him a final time before reaching his own climax, spending his load deep inside Athos' still spasming body.

Once he could see straight again Porthos pulled carefully out and cleaned them both up, settling them more comfortably under the covers, as outside the church bells starting ringing for the morning service.

"Will we go to hell if we stay here instead?" he murmured, kissing Athos' cheek.

"Given that last time hell came to us, I figure we're owed one," Athos yawned, wrapping Porthos affectionately in his arms. 

"Thank you," Athos murmured after they'd lain there for a while in sleepy and satisfied silence.

"Thank _you_ ," Porthos echoed with a laugh, kissing his arm and squeezing his hands tighter. Athos shook his head.

"I meant for everything."

"So did I." Porthos turned in his arms and looked at him. "Meeting you - it was worth every minute of all the rest of it."

"I'm sorry about the book," Athos said. "I mean - you won't get any money now."

Porthos sighed. "I know. But I've still got my job, so I'm not actually any worse off." He looked at Athos a little shyly. "In fact, I'm a lot better off. I hope? I mean - assuming you - you want to see me again?"

"Yes. God, yes. If you do?" Athos looked back at him with the same expression of anxious hope that Porthos suspected was all over his own.

"Of course I bloody do. Just you try and stop me." 

They fell back into each others' arms in shaky relief and hugged each other hard.

"I'll need to go back to the city tomorrow," Porthos sighed. "I can't be late back to work or I'll lose my position."

Athos nodded. "I'll come and visit as soon as I can," he promised, guessing that Porthos would have little spare money for travel. "You must give me your address."

Porthos nodded, then looked embarrassed. "It's - just a room in a boarding house," he muttered, knowing that as soon as he wrote down the address Athos would know it wasn't in the best of areas.

Athos tilted his face up and kissed him. "And mine is just a room in a university college," Athos said with a smile. "Probably smaller, and frequently colder," he added. "Academics are notoriously tight-pursed when it comes to fuel allocations."

"You're not surrounded by drunks and lowlifes though," Porthos sighed.

Athos snorted. "I'm surrounded by students. I think that might be worse."

Porthos finally smiled at him, accepting that Athos was trying to make him feel better. "I just don't want you getting a horrible shock if you come to see me," he admitted.

"When," said Athos. " _When_ I come to see you."

Porthos nodded slowly, and Athos took hold of his hands.

"I won't pretend it will be easy," Athos said quietly. "To continue to see each other - I will confess now, I am neither naturally as blatant nor willing to take risks as someone like Aramis seems to be." He paused and licked dry lips. "But I am willing to try. More than willing - that sounded begrudging, and it wasn't meant to. I have never - nobody has ever made me feel the way you do. I don't mean physically, although - " Athos blushed. "There is also that. But I mean - " he faltered. "Oh God, I don't know what I mean. I'm no good at this. Say something, for heaven's sake man."

Porthos smiled, and in answer merely drew Athos closer and kissed him, deeply, for a very long time.

\--


	8. Epilogue

It was dark and raining as Athos and d'Artagnan made their way up the cobbled street from the station. They were counting off house numbers, Athos clutching a steadily disintegrating piece of paper with an address scrawled on it.

"Here," D'Artagnan called out, flicking wet hair out of his eyes. "Is it this one?"

Athos came across and nodded. "Yes. Thank God for that. Five minute walk Aramis said, I'll kick him..." he let the thought tail off as d'Artagnan giggled, and they looked at each other, both bracing themselves to ring the bell.

It was the end of January. Aramis had invited them both down to his flat in the capital for the weekend, promising a reunion of sorts, and now they were here they were both realising how stupidly nervous they were. 

Athos reached out and tugged the bell-pull, listening to a jangling somewhere deep in the house.

After a mercifully brief wait, they heard footsteps thumping down what sounded like a flight of stairs, and the door was pulled open to reveal not the expected housekeeper or valet but Aramis himself.

"You made it!" he cried, and then frowned. "But you're soaked. Come in, quickly." He waved them inside and closed the door firmly on the awful night.

"Come upstairs," Aramis urged. "There's a fire, and dinner's ready. My landlady's out for the evening, so we're quite private," he added, leading the way up the stairs at a run. 

Athos and d'Artagnan exchanged a look, and followed him up.

"Here, let me take your wet things." Aramis had turned to meet them at the top, and extricated them from their soaking overcoats, hanging them from a hatstand taking up most of the landing. 

"I'm so glad you could come." He gave Athos a hearty embrace, then looked at d'Artagnan. "Hello."

"Hello." D'Artagnan stared back at him, then laughed and threw himself forwards. Aramis hugged him hard, laughing too now, and Athos stepped back out of the way, smiling faintly.

"Hello Athos." The quiet voice behind him made Athos catch his breath and turn. Porthos was standing in the doorway, looking as nervous as Athos felt.

"Porthos." Athos suddenly felt like his heart was racing. "I didn't know if - " 

He'd hoped, desperately, that Porthos would be here, but he hadn't known for sure. Porthos hadn't answered his letter. Hadn't answered any of his letters, in fact.

Porthos ducked his head, looking embarrassed. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I should have written back, I just - I never knew what to say."

"A simple yes, would have sufficed," Athos murmured. He'd offered to come down and meet him, at whatever time suited Porthos, but after the third letter had remained unanswered, had come to the sad conclusion that Porthos didn’t want to see him. But the fact that he was here, now, tonight - he had to have known Athos would be here. Didn’t he?

"Is everything alright?" Aramis was looking at them in slight concern, and Athos realised they'd just been staring at each other for some time without moving. 

"Yes. Yes, of course. Sorry." Athos cleared his throat and Porthos retreated into the sitting room, and they all followed him in. 

True to Aramis' promise there was a welcome fire blazing in the grate and a table laden with food. 

"Don't stand on ceremony, help yourselves to whatever you want," Aramis said, pouring them some wine. "How was the trip down?"

"Long, tedious and uncomfortable," said Athos. "And that was just the stretch between here and the station. Seriously, five minutes?"

Aramis shrugged. "Five, ten, I've never really timed it to be honest." He handed Athos a glass and grinned. "Sorry."

Athos rolled his eyes and took a deep swallow of wine. He was feeling hot and cold all over and didn’t know where to put his eyes. If Porthos hadn’t been here he'd have taken it as at least final evidence that the man no longer wanted anything to do with him. But he was, he was here, and Athos could feel Porthos watching him. He wished he knew what to do, or say, but he didn't. He took another mouthful of wine instead, and realised his hand was shaking.

"You're nearly empty."

Athos started, as he discovered the hand holding out the decanter belonged to Porthos.

"Th-thank you," he managed, as Porthos refilled his glass and set the decanter back on the table.

"I didn't know what to say," Porthos blurted suddenly. "I got home, and looked around at my life, and - and I didn't know how I could ever have anything to offer you."

Athos finally met his eyes, startled. "I never asked you for anything?" he breathed. "All I ever wanted was you."

Porthos stared miserably at him, wishing he could explain how he'd felt, how the cold hard reality of his everyday life after the days at the manor had brought him back to earth with a harsh bump. How he had to stuff old newspaper into the gaps in his windows to keep out the draught, how the suit he'd worn to the manor for his attempted scam had been borrowed, how the casual abundance of food and drink that Aramis had showered on his guests for simple snacks had often been more lavish than anything he'd even had on special occasions. He'd looked around, and he'd been too ashamed to show any of it to Athos.

And then the invitation from Aramis had arrived. Porthos had slept with it under his pillow, and tried hard not to cry with the sheer pain and unfairness of it all. But he hadn't replied.

Which as it turned out had been a mistake, because not having heard back in a couple of days and worrying he'd got the address wrong, Aramis had turned up at his door.

He'd said nothing about the state of Porthos' lodgings, although Porthos had felt his eyes taking everything in. But Aramis had delivered his invitation verbally and cheerfully refused to take no for an answer, and somehow, in another borrowed suit, here he was. 

Aramis and d'Artagnan had retreated to one of the sofas and were talking together in excitedly hushed voices, the awkwardness of a month's separation gone in an instant.

"It wasn't that I didn't want to see you," Porthos offered finally, lamely. "I hope you never thought that."

"What was I supposed to think?" Athos whispered. Porthos looked at him and saw the pain and the tension in his eyes, and felt sick knowing that that he'd caused it.

"I'm a fool," Porthos admitted quietly. "A damn fool, and you deserve better."

Athos swallowed and turned away, and Porthos' face crumpled with hopeless self-recrimination, but Athos was merely fetching something from his bag. He turned back to Porthos, holding out a folded sheet of paper that was damp round the edges from where the rain had got in, and shaking slightly in Athos' hand.

"What's this?" Porthos asked, taking it from him in confusion but not opening it. He wondered if it was another letter, one that Athos had never sent.

Athos, having downed the second glass of claret had finally mastered himself, and it was with a steady and emotionless voice that he answered.

"It's not my faculty, but I am not without influence at the university," he said managing to make it sound like he was merely stating a fact where others would have sounded prideful. "There is a place for you on next year's law degree, should you wish to accept it."

"For - me?" Porthos stared at him. "But they know nothing about me."

"They have accepted you on my recommendation."

Porthos gaped at him speechlessly. "But - Athos, this - you - Jesus." He sat down hard on one of the dining chairs and finally unfolded the sheet of paper. It was indeed a letter confirming the offer of a place to read law in the next academic year.

He put it down slowly, looking shaken. "Athos. You didn’t have to do this."

"No. I didn't. And yet, here we are." Athos poured himself a third glass with hands that were now coldly steady. "You needn't worry, the law faculty is some distance from my own, your place there is in no way dependent upon whether you wish any further contact with me or not."

Porthos' head snapped up. "Athos - " It hadn't, truly, sunk in before, how his behaviour must have seemed to Athos. Athos, who'd trusted him, opened up to him, lain with him. Athos, who must have been feeling abandoned and betrayed, and yet had _still done this for him._

He did the only thing he could think of, he surged to his feet, seized Athos' face in his hands and kissed him, hard.

Athos staggered back a step, the colour rising in his pale face, but to Porthos' relief there was no anger there, just flustered surprise.

Aramis and d'Artagnan had stopped talking and were watching them in some confusion, Athos having confided in neither of them of Porthos' silence.

"Thank you would have done," Athos murmured, hardly knowing where to look, but Porthos took hold of his hands and stared into his face until Athos met his eyes.

"That wasn't for the offer," Porthos told him. "That was for you, you daft pillock."

"Oh." Athos blinked at him, and Porthos kissed him again, more softly, until he felt Athos untense the tiniest fraction. 

"It was never, ever that I didn't want to see you," Porthos breathed. "I've thought about nothing else but you all month."

"Then why didn't you -?" Athos broke off helplessly. Porthos must have had his reasons, he thought. And now there was the tiny worm of hope in his chest, that maybe they could sort all this out.

Porthos though, was looking sombre again as he faced an insurmountable fact.

"Athos - this offer is amazing, you're amazing for arranging it. But I can't accept the place."

"Whyever not?" Athos protested.

Porthos shook his head sadly. "Because I'd never be able to afford it. Fees, dues, books, lodgings. I can barely make rent month to month as it is. And I imagine the price of living is rather higher at a first rate university."

"Actually, I think you'll find that you can," said Aramis, walking over to them.

"What? How?" Porthos looked confused. "I can't, I don’t have anything. I don’t even have anything I could sell."

"I do," said Aramis. "I promised you half the proceeds of that book, didn’t I?"

"Well, yes, but the book was destroyed," Porthos said.

"Yes. But let's just say my dream of moving to the countryside has palled a little after the events of Christmas," Aramis declared. "So I've decided, I'm selling the house and all its contents. Oh, don’t worry, you can have first pick of the books," he said to Athos, who looked as startled as everyone else. "But everything else is going. It should fetch quite enough for me to sponsor you through university, don't you think?"

Porthos looked poleaxed, until d'Artagnan punched him on the arm and grinned at him with the equanimity of someone quite at home with being given presents. "That's great, right?" 

Porthos shook himself. "I - I can't accept that," he said hoarsely. "That would be a huge amount of money."

"Nonsense, of course you can," said Aramis, who having seen the conditions Porthos was currently living in was quietly determined not to take no for an answer. "Can't he Athos?"

Athos looked at Porthos and smiled. "Yes." But he could see the conflict and embarrassment and angry pride in Porthos' face too, and squeezed his hand. "You could always pay it back," he suggested. "If you felt it was too much to accept as a gift. Once you have your degree, you would soon be earning enough to easily pay a little back each month."

"He doesn't have to," Aramis insisted, but Athos frowned at him.

"No, he doesn't have to. But he may want to. And maybe we should give him a chance to answer for himself," Athos conceded, suddenly conscious that for the last five minutes everyone in the room had been trying to run Porthos' life for him, regardless of what he wanted.

Porthos flinched as everyone abruptly turned to look at him, and stared round at them all nervously, feeling like he had that first day when the three of them had opened the door of the manor to him. Curious, demanding looks of enquiry, friendly but overwhelming. And in the middle, Athos, looking every inch as devastating as he had that night, and Porthos was lost all over again.

Before he could speak though, it was Athos who had taken charge once more.

"Give the poor man time to think it through," he scolded, waving Aramis and d'Artagnan back to their settee. "And you, have you eaten yet? No?" Athos started piling up a plate and handed it to Porthos. "No important decisions should be made on an empty stomach." Finding that he was feeling quite hungry himself, and that the gnawing emptiness of the past few weeks had suddenly lifted.

"You think I should say yes," Porthos murmured. "To everything."

"Yes, I do," Athos said quietly. "But only if it's what you want. And you should know that if you turn it down, you will still have to put up with me turning up on you every chance I get." 

He smiled, a little self-consciously. "Clearly, asking you for an invitation is no use, so I shall have to take matters into my own hands. And while I am prepared to let you throw away your opportunities to a certain extent, there are limits." To Porthos' surprise Athos leaned forward and kissed him then, just once but firmly, before picking up his own plate and retreating to join the others around the fire.

After a moment Porthos followed him, and having received a nod of invitation, settled next to Athos on the other couch.

For a time conversation drifted between different topics, before inevitably coming back to the events at the manor. After seeing Porthos safely off on a train, the others had remained at the inn another day before the snows had lifted enough to go back out to the house. No one would drive them, but Aramis had somehow convinced the stationmaster to lend him his car, promising faithfully they would return it unscathed.

The return trip had been something of an anti-climax in the end. Keyed up and nervous, the house in daylight had felt simply empty and harmless, and they had collected their belongings, disposed of the perishable food and locked up behind them with a sense of relief. 

Aramis had wondered if he would feel his uncle's presence, but even he appeared to have departed, perhaps with the book gone no longer having a reason to stick around.

Athos had described most of this in his first letter, but Porthos was eager to hear it again first hand, and was sorry he hadn't been there to accompany them. He looked a little down as he said this, and Athos let his hand slide sideways to cover Porthos' where it lay on the cushion.

Porthos smiled at him, and turned his hand over to hold Athos' properly.

"Have you made a decision yet?" Aramis asked quietly.

Porthos took a deep breath. "Yes. And - yes. I accept. Thank you, both of you. I have no way of ever showing you how much this means. And Aramis, I will pay you back, every penny."

"No rush." Aramis smiled at him, and raised his glass. "Besides, it might come in handy to know a lawyer one day, you never know."

"Do try not to get yourself arrested, there's a good chap," murmured Athos. 

D'Artagnan grinned at Porthos in delight. "I can't offer you anything on the scale these two have, but when you come up I'd be glad to show you round all the best pubs," he offered.

Porthos laughed, and Athos groaned, and Aramis hooked an arm around d'Artagnan's neck and hugged him. 

"I should possibly point out at this juncture that I only have two bedrooms here," Aramis declared. "I'd rather assumed no one would mind sharing as before, but - perhaps that was thoughtless of me?" he added, realising there'd clearly been some rift between Athos and Porthos he'd been unaware of.

They looked at each other. 

"I don't mind if you don't?" said Porthos quietly. Athos gave him a small smile, the colour rising in his cheeks again as he nodded at Aramis.

"We'll share."

Aramis looked pleased, and then glanced at d'Artagnan. "You don't get a choice," he smirked. "I've missed you in my bed for four weeks, it's been dreadful."

D'Artagnan flushed redder than Athos had at the blatantness of it, but nudged Aramis with his shoulder and laughed. "Fine. As long as no one else has been keeping it warm for you in the meantime."

"Not a soul," said Aramis mournfully. "I've probably forgotten how it all works."

"I doubt that somehow," D'Artagnan laughed, and let Aramis kiss him.

\--

The remainder of the evening was passed in considerably higher spirits, and it was late when they all finally retired to bed.

Aramis wound his arms round d'Artagnan when he was still half undressed and pulled him down to the bed, kissing his neck and making him laugh. "You're incorrigible." 

"Desperate more like."

"Oh, that's flattering!" D’Artagnan hit him with a pillow and escaped his clutches to continue removing his trousers and socks. Aramis lounged on the bed watching him, shirt open and bow tie hanging undone.

"You're beautiful," said Aramis, when d'Artagnan was down to his underwear. "Don't bother with a nightshirt, I'll only take it off you again,."

D'Artagnan sat next to him, laughing. "Desperate, huh?"

"I didn't mean it like that." Aramis kissed him, and d'Artagnan set about removing Aramis' clothes as well.

"Are you sure?" he asked idly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Aramis blinked at him, but d'Artagnan was concentrating on pulling his trousers off.

"Just that - from what you said - " and from what Athos had said too, he thought - "you seem like the type of man to have a lot of lovers," d'Artagnan murmured. "And I'll be at university for another year and a half yet. I can hardly afford to come down here every week."

"What are you saying?" Aramis sat up and folded d'Artagnan into his arms. "I've been good," he said a little plaintively. "And I can come and see you too. I promise there's no one else." 

D'Artagnan looked at him and smiled. "No, but one day there might be. You said that yourself. I suppose what I'm saying - I don't mind."

Aramis looked confused. "You don't mind - if there are others?" he said carefully, sure he must have got it wrong.

"As long as you tell me," d'Artagnan said, and took his hand. "Don't lie to me Aramis, I suppose that's what I'm saying. I'd like to think - one day we can be together. But that won't be for a while, and in the meantime - " he flushed a little. "There's no reason why we shouldn't have fun."

Aramis cocked his head. "Are you saying _you_ have someone else?"

"No!" D'Artagnan looked indignant, and Aramis raised his hands in surrender, laughing. 

"Alright. Free reign, then, both of us. On terms of full disclosure. I rather like it."

D'Artagnan relaxed in relief and Aramis kissed him, thinking that to have found someone capable of presenting a more scandalous solution than he might have come up with himself, was clearly some kind of sign it was meant to be.

He'd been determined to turn over a new leaf and be faithful, but a wandering eye was in his nature, and he knew deep down it wouldn't have ended well, particularly with them living so far apart.

"Does Athos know about your little proposal?" Aramis asked a short while later, when they were both completely naked and tucked together under the covers. 

"God no. We might be close, but I hardly discuss that kind of thing with him."

Aramis hummed noncommittally. "I was just thinking - it might be better to forewarn him. Or he'll end up thinking we're cheating on each other."

"That's true." D’Artagnan rolled over and slid his hand between Aramis' legs, finding to his satisfaction that he was already hard. "I have to say, right now I have no inclination to be with anyone else though."

"Me neither." Aramis grinned. "They do say absence makes the heart grow fonder. Or was it the cock grow harder? I forget."

D'Artagnan buried his face in Aramis' chest, giggling.

"I love how easy it is to make you blush," Aramis smirked. "An unfortunate thing, when someone's got a mind as filthy as you have."

"I have not!" D'Artagnan wriggled sideways until he was lying on top of Aramis. "I'm just easily swayed by unscrupulous older men," he grinned. "I was pure and innocent before I met you."

"Somehow, I find that hard to believe." Aramis rolled them over so he was on top, and smiled down at d'Artagnan sprawled in the pillows. "Can I fuck you?" he breathed, tracing d'Artagnan's cheek with his fingers.

"Would you - would you let me fuck you?" d'Artagnan asked, holding Aramis' gaze boldly, but feeling himself go scarlet.

Aramis looked surprised. "Well. Yes, I suppose so. If that's what you want?"

D'Artagnan felt a little breathless. "I - well, I wouldn't mind a turn. To be honest, I thought you'd say no."

"Did you?" Aramis rolled off him again and held his arms out until d'Artagnan was settled back on top of him. "Then I'm glad you still asked."

"You don't mind?"

"I don't mind." Aramis kissed him again, lingering and warm. "I am entirely at your disposal."

\--

In the next room, Athos had just returned from the bathroom, and was in the process of unbuttoning his shirt. Halfway down his fingers faltered and he seemed to forget what he was doing, staring into space with a troubled expression.

Porthos got up from where he was sitting on the bed and came over, wrapping his arms around Athos from behind and holding him tightly. 

"I'm sorry," he breathed against Athos' hair. "For everything, I'm so sorry."

After a second of standing tense and awkward in his arms, Athos turned and buried his face in Porthos' neck, clinging to him as hard as Porthos was holding him in turn.

His cheek was cold against Porthos' skin, and Porthos rocked him slightly in his arms. "If anyone else had hurt you like I have, I'd tear them limb from limb," Porthos said contritely. 

Athos gave a muffled laugh. "I hardly think that will be necessary. If only for the sake of Aramis' carpets."

"I'm sorry," Porthos said again, stroking Athos' hair, feeling the wild beating of his heart against his chest. "I love you Athos. I was just - I suppose I was scared that it wasn't enough."

"We couldn't have talked about it?" Athos pulled away and looked up at him then, a certain anger rising now it felt safe to do so. "I thought maybe something had happened to you!"

"Forgive me." Porthos looked wretched. "Can you forgive me? Or have I broken this after all?"

"You're a bloody idiot," Athos told him, breath catching in his throat. "And I love you."

Porthos stared at him for a second, then pulled Athos into his arms with a choked laugh that was more than half sob.

For a long time they just held each other, tightly, fiercely, not even kissing but just shutting out the world and its problems.

Eventually their desperate grip on each other loosened a little, and they relaxed into an easier embrace. Kisses were exchanged, chaste at first, seeking comfort and reassurance rather than passion. 

_"Athos."_ Porthos murmured his name like a prayer, stroking warm hands down his back and still looking shaken. "How can I ever - "

"Shhh." Athos laid his fingers lightly on Porthos' lips. "I forgive you. Of course I do."

They hugged each other again, and the moment of peaceful reconciliation was only interrupted by a muffled cry from the other side of the wall, suggesting that d'Artagnan at least had got lucky tonight.

"Do you think he stubbed his toe?" asked Porthos after a few mildly awkward seconds had gone past and Athos dissolved into silent laughter, his shoulders heaving as he leaned against Porthos' chest. 

Porthos grinned, suddenly thankful to d'Artagnan for inadvertently breaking the tension. "Come on," he said. "Let's go to bed."

Athos undressed the rest of the way and slid beneath the covers with Porthos, wriggling into the warmth of his arms without hesitation.

"Tomorrow," he murmured. "Will you show me where you live?"

Porthos sighed. "If I must."

"There's still seven months before your academic year starts," Athos reminded him. "I shall presumably be seeing a lot of it over that time, so I might as well start now."

"There's nothing quaint or romantic about it," Porthos warned him. 

"Do I look like I need to be sheltered?" 

Porthos smiled. "You're an academic. They don't come any more sheltered than that."

Athos took his hand, and kissed Porthos' knuckles. "Maybe I have been hiding from the world, to a certain extent," he conceded. "I've had my reasons."

"If I share my life with you, will you share those with me?" Porthos asked quietly.

Athos rolled over and looked down at him consideringly, before finally coming to a decision. "Yes. Alright. Tomorrow, though." 

Porthos reached up and pulled Athos down for a kiss, smiling against his lips. 

"And tonight?" Porthos enquired.

Athos smiled, and reached down to take firm hold of the considerable bulge in Porthos' nightshirt.

"Tonight, I am buggered if I'm going to let one of my students out-do me."

\--


End file.
